pichard 
Croker 


Alfred  Henry  Lewis 


U8RART 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


RICHARD  CROKER 


RICHARD  CROKER. 


By  Courtesy  of  McClure's  Magazine. 
•Copyright,  >9vi.  The  S.  S.  McCture  Company. 


RICHARD  CROKER 


ALFRED  HENRY  LEWIS 

Author  of 
"  Wolfville,"     "Sandburrs" 


New   York 

Life  Publishing  Company 
/  9  o  i 


Copyright,  1901, 
by 

LIFE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
New  York  City. 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London. 


Printed  in  the  United  States. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE   CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

AN  AUTHOR'S  ARGUMENT,          .       .       .       .  xiii 

I.    AN  ANCESTRY, 1 

n.    CROKER'S  PARENTAGE, 12 

m.  SCHOOL  DAYS— A  TRADE,           ....  30 

IV.  ATHLETICS — SELF-DEFENSE,         .        ...  42 

V.    THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER, 54 

VI.    SOME  SMALL  CHANGE, 69 

VII.    A  CHARACTER  STUDY, 82 

VIII.    MORE  SUBSIDIARY  COIN, 97 

IX.  SOME  CHURCH  THOUGHTS,           ....  117 

X.    BALLOT  DUTIES, 134 

XI.  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO,       ....  169 

XII.    BURR  AND  TAMMANY, 181 

XIII.  THE  VENGEANCE, 202 

XIV.  JOHN  KELLY, 224 

•     XV.    AN  EX-PRESIDENT, 251 

XVI.    SNOBS,  MY  MASTERS  ! 272 

XVII.    HILL  AND  GORMAN, 288 

XVIII.  BRYAN  AND  A  PRESIDENCY,        .       .       .       .310 

XIX.    THE  REFORMERS, 333 

XX.    THE  TRUSTS, 348 


THE   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


RICHARD  CHOKER, Frontispiece. 

RICHARD  CROKER  AS  A  YOUTH,         .        .    Facing  page     26 

TAMMANY  HALL, "  42 

RICHARD  CROKER'S  OFFICE  AT  TAMMANY  HALL,  "  74 

JOHN  KELLY, "  90 

THE  TAMMANY  HALL  PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD 

CROKER, "  106 

EXTERIOR  OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  CLUB,      .  "  122 

MAIN  HALL  OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  CLUB,    .  "  154 

JOHN  J.  SCANNELL, "  170 

FIREPLACE  IN  CAFE  OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  CLUB,  "  186 
STATUE  OF  ST.  TAMMANY  FROM  THE  FAgADE 

OF  TAMMANY  HALL,    ....  "  218 
ARTHUR  PUE  GORMAN,     ....  "  250 
MEETING  ROOM  OF  THE  EXECUTIVE  COM- 
MITTEE OF  TAMMANY  HALL,       .  "  282 
GROVER  CLEVELAND,         ....  "  314 

DAVID  B.  HILL, "  .       346 

THE  TAMMANY  MONUMENT  AT  GETTYSBURG,  "  362 


.1 


DEDICATION. 

To  the  HON.  OLIVER  H.  P.  BELMONT. 

Dear  Sir:  As  a  mark  of  my  respect  and  friendship, 
sentiments  which  find  root  in  those  several  years  we 
were  together  in  relations  of  close  social  and  business 
kind,  I  dedicate  this  volume  to  you.  And  thereby  I 
more  especially  desire  to  testify  my  admiration  of  those 
qualities  of  honesty,  courage,  generous  energy,  and  a 
fair  and  democratic  Americanism  which  move  you 
to  strive  in  the  general  interest  rather  than  the  nar- 
rower service  of  yourself.  Often  I  have  considered 
that  the  most  desperate  test  to  which  man's  nature 
can  be  subjected  is  the  inheritance  of  great  wealth. 
To  begin  poor,  and  amass  riches  and  retain  them,  and 
be  safe  from  life's  commencement  to  its  close,  are 
common  and,  indeed,  natural  conditions.  But  to  be 
born  with  great  wealth — to  be  wealthy  without  effort 
and  when  young,  blights  more  frequently  than  it  ben- 
efits, and  becomes  the  very  reason  of  ruin  oftener  than 
anything  else.  One  has  but  to  call  the  roll  of  one's 
own  acquaintance  to  be  taught  the  perils  that  lie  in 
ambush  in  a  cradle  full  of  gold.  Beyond  other  effects 
such  condition  of  earliest  wealth  is  prone  to  sap  one's 
energy  and  destroy  one's  hard  capacity  for  toil.  I 
do  not  now  speak  of  him  who  picks  up  a  system  of 
gainful  commerce  when  it  falls  from  the  dead  hands 
of  a  forbear;  who  goes  on  with  an  existing  enterprise 
which  runs  of  its  own  momentum;  and  who  offers  the 
spectacle  rather  of  being  conducted  by  a  business  than 
of  conducting  one.  There  are  herds  of  these,  of  any 


xii  DEDICATION. 

one  of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  a  fortune  inherited 
him  and  not  he  a  fortune.  No;  I  mean  an  energy  that 
is  original  and  a  toil  that  plows  new  fields.  And  it 
is  the  assertion  within  you  of  this  virile  energy,  and  a 
work-willingness,  and  that  despite  the  handicap  of 
riches  yours  from  the  first,  that  challenges  my  ap- 
plause. Work  when  one  feels  the  spur  of  need  in 
one's  flank  or  shoulder  is  a  leap  we  all  will  take.  But 
to  toil  when  no  selfish  occasion  compels,  and  when  the 
coaxing  idleness  of  some  pleasant  pleasure  allures,  is 
a  thought  too  hardy  for  most  of  us  who  must  be 
driven  to  every  field  of  effort  and  held  there  under 
guard.  So  rare  are  folk  of  this  sort  that,  aside  from 
yourself,  of  those  scores  of  Eich-when-born  whom 
I've  encountered,  I  noted  but  three  who,  with  tempers 
fine  enough  to  resist  those  moral  delinquencies  that  are 
the  seeds  of  a  sweet  destruction,  had  also  the  honesty, 
courage,  and  energy  of  initiative  in  combination 
which  will  attempt  new  paths,  and  strive  in  a  great 
enterprise  for  a  reason  not  self.  These  were  Messrs. 
Hearst  of  the  Journal,  Eoosevelt  of  the  Vice-Presi- 
dency, and  Cable,  one  time  Congressman  from  the 
Eock  Island  District,  Illinois.  You,  or  any  of  these, 
are,  to  my  mind,  among  the  best  examples  of  man, 
and  a  far  nobler  headland  for  our  youth  to  steer  by 
than  is  he  who,  adding  to  a  healthful  and  coercive 
poverty  some  genius  for  voracity  and  to  make  a  prey, 
has  conquered  to  himself  a  mountain  of  money  to  no 
one's  good  but  his  own.  It  is  for  these  qualities  I 
touch  my  hat  to  you;  and  hoping  for  your  future  that 
success  which  I  do  not  doubt  it  will  have,  I  remain, 
Sincerely  your  friend, 

ALFEED  HENRY  LEWIS. 


AN   AUTHOK'S   AEGUMENT. 

FIRST  among  the  arts  is  the  art  of  existence.  And 
one  may  make  of  one's  life  a  picture  whereof  the 
framing  shall  be  one's  birth  and  death.  The  picture 
in  its  making  will  be  much  within  one's  own  hands. 
It  may  show  bright  or  dark,  sunshine  or  storm, 
tragedy  or  comedy;  and  it  will  entertain,  or  teach  a 
lesson,  or  be  a  warning.  And  in  this  life-picture,  for 
either  its  beauty  or  interest,  that  trade  or  purpose  to 
which  one  betakes  one's  self,  wherewith  to  live  or  to 
kill  one's  time,  is  not  of  so  much  moment  as  those 
who  only  casually  regard  the  subject  might  appre- 
hend. All  that  is  requisite  in  order  that  one's  life 
may  go  "  on  the  line  "  as  of  the  best  pictures  is  to  be 
best  and  first  of  one's  degree. 

There  is  a  good  story  in  the  life  of  every  man.  But 
the  best  stories  will  be  the  stories  of  those  selected  as 
the  best  lawyer  and  farmer  and  preacher  and  pirate 
and  soldier  and  doctor  and  writer  and  politician  and 
mechanic  and  fop  and  wit  and  what  else  one  will. 
Whatever  one's  class,  and  whether  the  world  call  it 
humble  or  high,  if  one  be  but  particular  to  stand  at  its 
head,  one's  story  will  be  worth  the  telling,  and  hailed 
as  of  first  and  purest  merit  as  a  tale. 

Of  course,  according  to  a  taste,  one  onlooker  will 
affect  this  picture  and  another  that;  one  will  peruse 
the  dominie  while  another  burns  oil  to  read  the  bucca- 
neer. Some,  even,  will  prefer  the  fop.  Byron  was  of 

xiii 


xiv  AN  A  UTHOR  '8  AEG  UMENT. 

these,  and  solemnly  protested  that  he  would  rather  be 
George  Brummel  than  Napoleon.  And,  truly!  where 
is  the  better  picture,  or  the  better  story,  than  a  fop 
who  is  perfect  in  consistency  and  complete  in  each 
respect? 

There  was  Scrope  Davies,  for  example,  whom  Byron 
loved  as  well  as  he  did  Brummel  and  to  whom  he  dedi- 
cated his  "  Parisina."  Scrope  was  a  neat  and  for- 
midable contestant  against  Brummel  for  the  crown  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Dandy;  and,  holding  his  own  in  all 
else — for  Scrope  was  wit  and  scholar  as  well  as  beau — 
was  only  at  last  defeated  by  the  desperate  perfection  of 
his  rival's  cravats. 

Byron  speaks  of  Scrope,  and  amuses  one  with  his 
brief  sketch  of  an  evening — "At  the  Cocoa  with 
Scrope  Davies.  Sat  from  six  till  midnight.  Drank 
between  us  one  bottle  of  champagne  and  six  of  claret. 
Offered  to  take  Scrope  home  in  my  carriage;  but  he 
was  tipsy  and  pious,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  him  on 
his  knees  praying  to  I  know  not  what  purpose  or 
pagod." 

Scrope  was  quite  as  difficult  a  picture,  and  just  as 
perfect,  as  was  Caesar  at  the  head  of  his  Romans.  The 
story  of  Scrope  would  be  as  interesting  as  that  of 
Caesar,  and  worth  as  much  to  men. 

Become  of  the  best  of  one's  sort,  and  one  will  be 
entitled  to  go  on  the  shelf  as  of  the  best  books,  or  on 
the  wall  as  of  the  best  pictures,  and  hold  one's  own 
with  competition. 

Eichard  Croker  is  a  politician  and  peerless  of  his 
kind.  Which  is  why  this  book  is  written.  Hate  may 
deny  and  Envy  frame  a  sneer  and  Defeat  appeal  the 
gods  in  contradiction;  yet  Richard  Croker,  the  most 


AN  A  VTHOR  '8  ARO  UMENT.  xv 

potential  figure  of  the  greatest  city  of  the  greatest 
State  of  the  greatest  country  of  the  world,  can  be  no 
too-little  subject  for  any  page  or  pen. 
NEW  YORK  CITY, 
May  10th,  1901. 


RICHARD  CROKER 


I. 


AN    ANCESTBY. 

Mar.  My  Lord  Aumerle,  is  Harry  Hereford  armed? 
Awn.  Yea,  at  all  points,  and  longs  to  enter  in. 

— King  Richard  II. 

THIS  work  is  to  have  concern  with  Richard  Croker. 
And  while,  by  all  known  rules  of  book-building,  what 
immediately  follows  should  be  named  for  its  most 
part,  "  Preface,"  it  is  deemed  well  to  make  of  it  a 
chapter.  There  is  a  wisdom  in  this.  A  preface, 
commonly,  is  nothing  set  forth  in  from  two  hundred 
to  ten  thousand  words,  dependent  for  length  on  the 
writer's  genius  for  preface.  It  is  barren  of  idea, 
bankrupt  of  fact — a  desert  of  inky  desolation.  This 
preface-waste  of  types,  thrown  between  the  reader  and 
the  book,  does  harm.  It  sucks  up  not  infrequently 
those  streams  of  popular  interest  which  might  other- 
wise have  reached  the  book.  No,  of  a  verity!  a 
preface  is  a  disaster  to  reader  and  to  writer  both.  It 
is  a  scarecrow  to  frighten  timid  fowl  from  that  corn 
of  fact  or  fancy  lying  just  beyond.  Therefore,  let  us 
have  no  prefaces.  Let  us  in  pleasant  stead  have  chap- 
ters, as  matters  much  more  likely  to  win  the  eye  of 
general  interest.  There  was  never  the  man  save  one 


2  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

who  might  with  safety  hail  himself  master  of  preface 
— that  was  Walter  Scott.  He  threw  out  and  managed 
these  skirmish  lines  of  literature  with  a  skill  as  rare 
as  brilliant.  With  Scott  the  preface  was  often  better 
than  the  book. 

This  volume,  then,  is  to  deal  with.  Richard  Croker, 
and  in  measure  tell  his  story.  Still,  one  is  not  to  call  it 
a  biography.  I,  who  write,  have  neither  the  bent  nor 
yet  such  load  of  detail  needed  for  one  of  those  painful, 
hair-line  etchings  known  to  book-commerce  as  biogra- 
phies. Again,  your  biography,  worth  the  term,  should 
have  deference  to  a  day  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century 
after  its  subject  is  successfully  dead — until  he  who 
is  to  be  biographed  is  locked  in  that  sure  stronghold 
of  the  grave.  This  work,  as  against  all  other  titles, 
might  best  be  styled  a  sketch.  And  while  there  is 
nothing  in  a  name  there  is  much  in  an  example,  and  it 
would  be  well  if,  of  writers  past  and  present,  we  might 
pick  on  one  to  guide  by.  Macaulay  did  this  sort  of 
thing  for  a  stout  list  of  gentlemen,  all  good  and  dead 
to-day.  Macaulay  named  them  "Essays."  But  one 
may  not  go  too  close  in  imitation  of  Macaulay.  Our 
perfervid  Scot  was  much  warped  of  partisanship. 
Macaulay  was  thrilling,  but  untrue.  Carlyle,  another 
Scotchman  with  a  French  pen,  left  cords  of  similar 
contribution,  doubly  amazing  for  vigorous  phrasing 
and  anaemic  veracity.  Hazlett  was  another  who,  in 
his  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  followed  this  trail  to  market, 
and  sold  a  deal  of  good  wormwood  to  make  a  bad, 
poor  living  withal.  Of  the  world's  sketch-writers, 
Plutarch  succeeded  the  highest.  Our  Roman,  like 
Izaak  Walton,  who,  three  centuries  ago,  was  a  later 
Plutarch  in  a  little  way  to  Wotten,  Donne,  and  others, 


TRUTH  IS  SOUGHT.  3 

baptized  his  efforts  "  Lives."  But  we  forage  too  far 
and  to  no  good  end  among  these  dust-heaps  of  dead 
time.  None  of  them  is  a  model.  Let  us  get  back  to 
our  task  and  depend  on  ourselves. 

In  dressing  the  stone,  and  mixing  the  mortar,  and 
laying  the  walls  of  this  story,  there  shall  be  but  one 
purpose:  The  sole,  lone  target  aimed  at  shall  be  truth. 
It  may  be  well  to  wear  this  statement  in  one's  mind. 
A  procession  of  mendacity,  in  a  very  lock-step  of  lies, 
will  follow  Eichard  Croker  to  the  end.  It  will  be 
marshaled  by  partisanship,  recruited  by  jealousy,  and 
led  by  his  foes.  It  is  worth  while,  therefore,  since 
none  cuts  coupons  from  any  bond  of  error,  to  create 
a  place  in  print  where  the  truth  of  Richard  Croker 
can  be  had.  This  is  to  be  no  attack,  no  defense;  it  is 
neither  to  blame  nor  to  praise.  "  Sir  Oliver,"  quoth 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  "  we  live  in  a  damned  wicked  world, 
and  the  fewer  we  praise  the  better."  The  ill-used 
baronet's  wisdom  in  this  last  fulsome  behalf  shall  be 
to  us  a  chart.  No,  there's  to  be  neither  love,  nor 
hate,  nor  praise,  nor  censure,  nor  bouquets,  nor  brick- 
bats, nor  interest  personal  or  political,  from  one  cover 
to  the  other.  Truth  shall  be  the  watchword,  first  as 
last.  'Tis  a  commodity  grand,  popular,  and  scarce — 
that  Truth.  There's  little  of  it  told;  there's  little  of 
it  sold.  For  which  reasons,  Truth,  where  and  for 
what  cause  it  comes  to  market,  should  carry  that  in- 
terest and  selling  quality  commonly  stated  of  hot 
cakes. 

It  is  a  fashion  when  one  writes  of  folk  of  eminence, 
advertisement,  and  power,  to  plant  some  space  with 
their  pedigrees.  Whether  the  subject  be  some  kinless 
loon,  or  one  rich  in  ancestry,  is  ever  of  deep  im- 


4  K1CBARD  CHOKER. 

portance;  especially  in  America,  emphatically  in  New 
York.  There  are — by  averment  of  the  sole  agents  of 
these  shores — more  "  Burke's  Peerages "  sold  each 
year  in  New  York  City  than  in  London  and  all 
England.  There  are  more  carriages  to  be  seen  in  any 
New  York  City  day  bedight  with  the  coat-armor  of 
the  free  and  democratic  American  inside,  than  would 
roll  by  one  in  London  in  a  week.  And  wherefore 
not?  The  veriest  pessimist  of  lineage  and  heraldry 
would  fain  concede  you  full  two  thousand  families  of 
this  city,  whose  rights  rest  on  the  Four  Hundred,  and 
who  trace  themselves  to  forefathers  who  "  came  over 
with  the  Conqueror."  True,  not  a  few  of  these,  our 
American  nobility,  have  no  knowledge  of  the  "  Con- 
queror "  ;  whether  of  his  name,  his  person,  or  that 
day  of  which  he  lived.  They  know  not  what  he  "  con- 
quered," nor  what  he  "  came  over  "  ;  they  ken  neither 
his  start  nor  his  stop — where  he  was  nor  where  he 
went.  Nor  why.  Admit  it  all:  what  then?  Our  hope- 
ful patricians  are  still  clear  as  to  the  coat  of  arms, 
and  that  forbear  who  "  came  with  the  Conqueror." 

One  is  not  to  suppose,  however,  for  that  it  is  com- 
mon as  a  genealogical  feat  in  New  York  City,  Eichard 
Croker  in  his  ancestry  is  here  to  be  back-tracked  to 
the  Norman.  One  is  sure  of  the  Croker  line  no 
further  away  than  Cromwell.  Still,  this  is  well;  for 
Cromwell  himself  in  his  day  was  quite  a  comfortable 
form  of  conqueror;  and  it  is  better  than  an  even 
chance,  had  he  been  at  Hastings  that  far  hour  instead 
of  Harold,  bold  William  with  his  ambitions  would 
have  gone  limping  back  to  France. 

Eichard  Croker  was  born  in  1843.  He  saw  his  first 
sun  in  Ireland,  not  over  far  from  Cork  and  in  the 


CASTLETOWNROCHE.  5 

farm  regions  about  the  hamlet  of  Castletownroche. 
His  father  was  Eyra  Coote  Croker.  In  their  original 
the  Crokers  were  English,  and  came  into  Ireland  with 
Cromwell  as  officers  in  his  army  of  invasion.  These 
Cromwell  Crokers  had  celebration  in  their  time  for 
much  soldierly  stubbornness  of  heart  and  arm.  They 
would  face  anything,  fight  anything,  whether  in  pub- 
lic or  in  private  war;  and  stood  touchily  upon  their 
honor.  There  were  Crokers  in  the  army,  in  literature, 
in  law,  in  parliament.  They  were  of  the  gentry;  but 
lacking  thrift  and  prudence,  and  with  an  overpower- 
ing bent  to  wager  their  substance  on  dice,  cards,  and 
horses,  no  Croker  of  the  olden  time  was  very  rich  for 
very  long.  For  two  centuries  and  a  half  after  Crom- 
well, those  Crokers  who  remained  in  Ireland  and  their 
descendants,  when  not  in  the  law  or  the  army,  were 
"  gentlemen  farmers."  But  whatever  they  were,  they 
raced  and  rode  and  hunted  and  wagered  and  fought. 
Withal,  they  were  strong  in  an  inherited  Presby- 
terianism;  than  which  last-named  virtue,  "  there  is 
nothing/'  says  some  sage  of  arms,  "  so  good  to  stiffen 
a  line  of  battle." 

Speaking  of  duels,  it  is  said  by  some  that  it  was  a 
Croker  who  challenged  that  Castlereagh  who  was  Lord 
Lieutenant  of  Ireland  in  the  earliest  years  of  last  cen- 
tury. The  firebrand  Croker  aforesaid  had  been  in- 
sulted by  a  beggarly  gauger;  and  not  caring  to  fight 
so  low  a  fellow,  and  reflecting  that  Castlereagh  as  the 
highest  civic  authority  must  own  the  gauger  for  his 
minion,  he  sent  a  cartel  to  that  nobleman  as  to  one 
who  by  his  agent  had  worked  the  offense.  Castlereagh 
was  discouraged.  He  opposed  the  construction  of  such 
a  precedent.  If  he,  as  Lord  Lieutenant,  was  to  be 


6  RICHARD  CROKER. 

paraded  at  ten  paces  for  the  misdeeds  of  every  ignoble 
gauger  on  his  lists,  his  days  would  be  filled  with  pow- 
der smoke,  and  his  trusty  "  saw-handles  "  kept  bark- 
ing from  morning  till  dark. 

Castlereagh  submitted  these  views  to  the  hostile 
Croker.  They,  in  no  sort,  appealed  to  the  latter.  He 
insisted  that  Castlereagh  answer  for  his  derelict 
gauger  in  the  Phoenix.  The  question  was  referred  to 
an  Irish  Court  of  Honor  composed  of  gentlemen  as 
ardent  as  the  Crokers.  The  Court  of  Honor  went 
heavily  into  the  controversy.  It  heard  Croker.  It 
listened  to  Castlereagh  and  weighed  the  latter^s  de- 
fense. Then  it  gave  decision: 

"  Castlereagh  was  right/'  said  the  Court,  "  in  re- 
fusing to  be  held  for  the  mal-deeds  of  the  gauger. 
There  were  no  such  relations  of  confidence  and  near- 
ness," argued  the  Court,  "  between  a  Lord  Lieutenant 
and  a  gauger,  which  forced  the  first  to  the  field  to  be 
shot  at  for  the  transgressions  of  the  other.  Castle- 
reagh was  to  be  upheld  in  his  pose.  But,"  continued 
the  Court,  with  a  fineness  of  perception  born  of  its 
native  greed  for  trouble,  "  there  was  another  side  to 
the  case  in  hand.  Castlereagh  was  not  alone  Lord 
Lieutenant;  he  was  also  a  soldier.  And  a  soldier, 
pugnacious  by  profession,  was  bound  to  accept  all 
challenges  without  reference  to  the  cause,  and  be 
ready  to  go  to  the  field  with  any  gentleman  who  had 
a  mind  for  blood.  It  was  the  Court's  unanimous  voice 
that,  on  this  argument,  Castlereagh  should  fight." 

Castlereagh,  however,  declined  the  decision  and  re- 
fused to  be  controlled.  Croker  was  in  despair,  and 
the  Court  of  Honor  scandalized.  They  regarded  the 
Lord  Lieutenant  as  no  better  than  a  fool  in  his  folly 


THE  WELLSTEADS.  7 

for  failure  to  have  advantage  of  a  quarrel  offered  with 
such  integrity,  and  upheld  with  such  skill.  Lever,  I 
believe,  makes  some  use  of  this  story  in  one  of  his 
tales  of  Ireland  and  the  Irish.  But  Lever  claps  the 
narrative  on  the  shoulder  of  one  of  his  people  of 
fiction,  and  not  at  all  on  that  Croker  to  whom  it  prop- 
erly belongs. 

Richard  Croker,  on  his  mother's  side,  deduces  his 
descent  from  Scotland.  His  mother's  family,  even 
before  the  Crokers  came  in  with  Cromwell,  left  their 
sterile,  half-fed  Scottish  glens  and  pushed  into 
Ireland,  where,  with  a  more  lenient  climate,  and  a 
gentler,  richer  soil,  a  man  might  take  more  for  his 
tillage.  Their  family  name  was  Wellstead. 

Being  equally  of  the  gentry  with  the  Crokers,  the 
Wellsteads  were  on  social  par  with  them.  With  more 
mood  to  plow  a  field  than  train  a  dog  or  mount  a 
horse  and  hunt  a  fox,  and  with  nothing  of  that  taste 
for  quart-pots,  wars,  and  wagers  which  so  shone  in  the 
case  of  the  Crokers,  the  Wellsteads  far  outtopped 
the  others  in  point  of  fortune.  The  Wellsteads  did 
not  have  so  good  a  time  as  the  Crokers;  but  they  had 
more  money.  While  there  is  no  instance  of  angry 
collision  between  the  two  families,  it  is  not  understood 
in  the  traditions  of  Castletownroche  that  the  Crokers 
or  the  Wellsteads  found  in  the  others  much  of  deep 
delight. 

"  Ten  years  ago " — said  Mr.  John  Scannell,  a 
gentleman  who  has  known  Richard  Croker  since  his 
boyhood,  and  of  whom  there  will  be  more  or  less  to 
say  throughout  these  pages — "  ten  years  ago  I  made  a 
tour  of  Ireland.  I  called  on  Croker's  uncle.  His 
name  was  Richard  Wellstead.  The  old  gentleman  was 


8  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  favorite  brother  of  Kichard  Croker's  mother.  She 
named  her  son  for  this  brother.  This  Wellstead  was 
a  *  gentleman  farmer '  of  the  type  one  reads  about. 
He  was  hale  and  firm  of  mind  and  fiber.  His  farm 
had  about  one  thousand  acres.  His  business,  and  as 
well  his  joy,  was  to  raise  blooded  cattle  and  swine, 
and  show  them  in  all  the  great  fairs  throughout  the 
four  kingdoms.  He  had  a  good  library  and  a  great 
wine  cellar,  and  when  not  about  his  cattle,  divided 
time  between  his  bottle  and  his  books.  Well-educated 
and  much-traveled,  the  old  gentleman  made  the  two 
or  three  hours  I  put  in  with  him  not  the  worst  I  saw 
abroad.  I  asked  him  about  the  Crokers:  he  shook  his 
head;  he  didn't  like  them. 

" '  I  never  liked  the  Crokers,'  he  said;  *  the  men  of 
the  family,  while  gentlemen,  were  sad  roysterers. 
They  had  no  turn  for  business  and  despised  it.  They 
couldn't  keep  money.  They  had  but  one  ambition — 
the  army.  They  held  your  swashbuckler  officer,  drink- 
ing and  dicing  away  his  patrimony,  making  vain 
wagers  on  the  issues  of  a  horse  race,  and  all  to  the 
ruin  of  his  fortune,  in  greater  esteem  than  some 
honest  farmer  who,  reaping  his  fields  in  peace,  could 
win  his  pounds  and  count  his  pounds  and  keep  his 
pounds  with  any  of  the  land.  No,  no;  it  was  a  case  of 
fire  and  water;  at  no  time  in  two  centuries  have  the 
Crokers  and  the  Wellsteads  overwell  agreed.  I  did 
what  man  might  to  keep  my  sister  from  marrying  one. 
But  girls  are  hard  to  guide;  she  had  her  way.' 

"  The  old  gentleman,"  continued  Scannell,  "  took 
a  deep  drink  after  this.  Being  refreshed,  he  went 
over  an  interminable  list  of  Crokers  who  squan- 
dered their  fortunes  before  middle  age,  and  then 


LOCKHAET—  CAMPBELL.  9 

passed  a  want-bitten  existence  to  the  end  of  their  days 
on  the  narrow  pay  of  a  captain.  He  seemed  a  bit 
mollified  in  the  instance  of  Eyra  Coote  Croker,  who 
married  his  sister  and  became  the  father  of  Kichard 
Croker.  He  spoke  better  of  him  than  of  the  others, 
saying  that  he  was  the  best  of  the  lot;  albeit  he,  too, 
had  been  guilty  of  that  family  crime  of  the  Crokers, 
and  lost  his  money  before  ever  he  saw  thirty  years." 

It  will  strike  the  calmer  mind  that  in  this  matter 
of  family  we  have  done  enough.  Walton  with  his 
"  Lives  "  will  in  five  pages  have  you  his  pet  Donne — 
family  tree  and  all — to  his  twentieth  year.  Campbell, 
in  his  "  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors,"  deals  out  the 
genealogy  of  his  wigged,  grave  heroes  with  but  a 
scurvy  scantiness.  Even  in  the  instance  of  the 
bloody  Jeffries,  about  all  that  Campbell  tells  one  is 
that  Jeffries'  father  was  a  Welshman  who  took  early 
occasion  to  prophesy  a  headless  ending  for  his  son 
with  block  and  ax  on  Tower  Hill;  and  then,  as  one 
who  washes  his  hands  of  a  bad  matter,  never  spoke 
to  his  son  again.  Lockhart,  in  his  "  Life  of  Scott," 
an  indomitable  work  which  extends  itself  in  ten 
volumes,  disposes  of  the  "  pedigree "  and  the 
"  parentage "  of  his  noble  hero  in  twenty-five 
pages.  And  as  Sir  Walter  was  father  of  Lockhart's 
wife,  the  author  was  bound  to  warm  to  his  subject, 
and  hold  for  it  a  filial  love  by  sheer  artifice  of  law. 
And  yet  "  pedigree  "  and  "  parentage  "  in  twenty-five 
brief  pages! 

One  is  not,  however,  to  blame  Walton,  nor  Camp- 
bell, nor  Lockhart,  nor  those  others  of  our  biographers 
who  expend  not  themselves  generously  in  affairs  of 
pedigree.  It's  not  so  much  neglect  as  caution.  And 


10  RICHARD  CROKER. 

to  you  who  read,  and  who,  at  this  time,  for  aught  one 
knows,  may  be  sowing  the  seeds  of  the  pedigree  habit 
within  your  own  breast,  a  word  of  warning  should  be 
flung.  Beware!  The  appetite  for  ancestry  lately  de- 
veloped in  America  is  as  pernicious  as  the  poppy. 
Have  a  care  as  you  climb  the  family  tree,  lest  your 
sensibilities  should  heir  a  fall.  One  must  not  crowd 
one's  ancestry  to  the  wall,  nor  harass  it  with  too  strict 
a  search,  lest  it  turn  and  rend  one.  It  has  been  the 
fault  of  every  age  that  more  folk  were  hanged  than 
crowned.  By  that  token!  one  should  go  warily  about 
the  heretofore.  There  lives  none  but  who  is  bound, 
by  the  very  argument  of  opportunity,  and  as  one 
thousand  is  to  one,  to  face  the  risk  of  an  ancestry, 
which,  with  the  last  word,  will  climb  a  gallows  rather 
than  a  throne.  And  doubtless  this  wisdom  was  in  the 
thoughts  of  our  historians  of  men  when  they  disposed 
of  the  "  family  "  in  each  coil  with  so  much  of  a  sharp 
suddenness.  Those  of  us  will  be  cunning  who  heed 
their  examples.  Let  us,  therefore,  end  this  our  search 
into  the  annals  of  past  Crokers  with  a  story  of  Kichard 
Croker's  great-grandsire.  It  may  serve  as  a  partial 
picture  of  the  hardy  home-love  of  the  breed. 

Our  old  gentleman  lay  dying;  the  preacher  sat  by  his 
bedside  comforting  his  departure  with  the  loveliness  of 
Paradise. 

"Is  heaven  so  beautiful,  then?"  asked  the  dying 
Croker. 

"Aye!  is  it,"  quoth  the  dominie. 

"Have  you  seen  the  River  Blackwater  that  sweeps 
by  us  that  handful  of  miles  to  our  south?  " 

"Aye!  have  I,"  quoth  the  dominie;  "I  mind  the 
Blackwater  well." 


BLACKWATER  BANKS.  11 

"And  do  you  know  the  land  and  the  scenes  of  it 
that  lie  between  Blackwater  and  Castletownroche?  " 

"  Those  scenes  are  dear  and  fragrant  to  my  mem- 
ory," quoth  the  dominie.  "  None  knows  them  better." 

"  And  is  heaven  so  beautiful?  " 

"Aye!  is  it,"  quoth  the  dominie,  folding  his  hands. 
"Blackwater  banks,  and  the  scenes  about  Castletown- 
roche, are  by  comparison  as  a  fiend-infested  desolation 
— a  sand-blown,  awful  waste." 

"It's  a  lie!"  whispering  the  dying  old  man,  while 
wrath  lit  its  torch  in  each  eye.  "  It's  a  lie!  Out  of 
my  house!  None  so  false  shall  find  shelter  within 
four  walls  of  mine! " 

Having  thus  thrown  out  the  dominie,  the  old  man, 
with  the  gripe  of  death  upon  him,  turned  to  the  wall 
and  passed  without  further  speech.  But  he  died 
sturdily  as  he'd  lived,  maintaining  that  in  no  most 
favored  nook  of  the  universe  could  a  picture  so  fair 
be  found,  as  that  which  spread  from  his  door — the 
fields  between  Blackwater  and  Castletownroche. 


II. 

CHOKER'S  PARENTAGE. 

Farewell  to  the  land  where  the  clouds  love  to  rest, 

Like  the  shroud  of  the  dead  on  the  mountain's  cold  breast ; 

To  the  cataract's  roar  where  the  eagles  reply, 

And  the  lake  her  lone  bosom  expands  to  the  sky. 

—  Walter  Scott. 

IT  was  in  1846,  then,  that  Eyra  Coote  Croker  and  his 
household  spread  sail  for  America.  With  him  as  his 
most  valued  possession  came  young  Kichard  Croker, 
at  the  untried  age  of  three.  One  didn't  "  step  across  " 
in  those  days,  and  the  Crokers  were  two  weeks  in  their 
coming.  History  is  noiseless  on  the  subject  of  that 
voyaging,  and  whatever  of  watery  adventure  was  en- 
countered is  lost  and  not  preserved.  It  is  to  be 
assumed  that  the  Crokers  met  fair  weather  and  foul, 
head  winds  and  flattering  gales,  sunshine,  and  again 
those  lowering  clouds  burned  with  leven  flashes  and 
split  by  the  storm's  hoarse  voice,  together  with  what- 
ever of  further  phenomena  are  common  to  eyes  which 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships. 

It  does  not  appear  that  at  this  hour  Eyra  Coote 
Croker  was  decided  to  make  New  York  his  abiding 
place.  Evidently  he  had  been  taught  that  the  Eldorado 
he  came  seeking  lay  westward  and  beyond.  This 
seems  plain;  for  after  landing,  no  sooner  was  his  family 
sheltered  in  safe  comfort  than  the  head  of  the  house 
explored  as  far  as  Cincinnati  in  search  of  some  place 

13 


THE  CROKER  FORTUNES.  13 

that  might  cope  with  his  hopes  of  a  home.  It  was  not 
to  be.  In  that  day,  as  in  this,  there  was  nothing  to  the 
West  that  quite  repaid  one  for  New  York;  and,  follow- 
ing a  few  weeks  of  going  about,  Eyra  Coote  Croker,  like 
many  another  of  parallel  experience,  came  back  to  New 
York  to  remain.  The  West  held  no  offer  which  New 
York  didn't  double;  and  thus  it  was  that  Eyra  Coote 
Croker  made  conclusion  to  live  where  he  came  ashore, 
and  with  that  set  up  his  lares  and  penates,  and  was  at 
rest. 

We  will  not  continue  in  exhaustive  recital  the  com- 
ings in  and  goings  out  of  the  parents  of  Richard  Croker. 
They  were  folk  of  repute,  law-abiding  and  industrious; 
and  while  they  lived  in  circumstances  of  slender  for- 
tune— for  Eyra  Coote  Croker,  like  all  Crokers  past  and 
present  of  whom  one  hears  a  lisp,  was  born  with  both 
hands  open,  and  had  such  hold  of  money  as  a  riddle  has 
of  water — they  were  of  good  moment  and  respect  in 
their  neighborhood  and  day.  Richard  Croker's 
mother,  the  once  Miss  Wellstead,  was  peculiarly  a  lady 
of  refinement  and  culture.  In  every  role  of  life  she 
was  a  star  to  steer  by,  while  her  deep  sentiment  of  re- 
ligion shone  in  her  life  like  a  grace. 

Eyra  Coote  Croker,  who  had  worn  sword  and  epau- 
let as  an  officer  of  the  Queen,  threw  away  his  commis- 
sion when  his  money  was  gone,  and  brought  to  this 
country  no  method  of  bread-winning  save  a  profound 
knowledge  of  veterinary,  an  art  to  which  all  Crokers 
are  congenitally  bent.  What  in  Ireland  had  been  the 
leisure  of  an  amateur  became  here  the  profession  by 
which  he  lived,  and  for  many  years  following  his  ad- 
vent in  America  Eyra  Coote  Croker  practiced  the  mys- 
tery of  horse-surgery  with  much  resultant  comfort  of 


14  RICHARD  CROKER. 

money.  When  our  civil  battle  broke  in  the  war-wrung 
sixties,  the  old  fighting  spirit  of  those  Crokers  who 
rode  at  the  back  of  Cromwell  was  roused,  and  Eyra 
Coote  Croker  struck  in  for  the  Flag  and  the  Union. 
He  came  to  no  military  eminence — for  there  is  a  poli- 
tics in  war  as  well  as  peace,  and  Eyra  Coote  Croker,  a 
Democrat  then  as  is  his  son  to-day,  had  not  that 
"  interest "  at  Washington  without  which  commissions 
walk  slow  as  doom  to  meet  one — and  his  quality  as  a 
soldier  is  now  recalled  only  by  some  old,  belated  com- 
rade, or  those  others  who  hold  unfashionably  with  the 
song  that,  "  The  boys  who  do  the  fighting  are  the  pri- 
vates of  the  army." 

It  is  probable  that  the  child-years  of  young  Richard 
Croker  would  scarce  repay  a  ransack  in  quest  of  the 
unusual.  Childhood  in  most  of  its  experience  and  ex- 
pression is  ever  the  same.  It  is  a  period  of  savagery, 
with  only  a  half-threat  of  that  eclipse  which  culture, 
arriving  with  years,  will  confer  upon  it.  Childhood, 
whether  it  be  white,  or  red,  or  black,  or  wheat-hued,  as 
in  China,  is  marked  by  a  squalling  impatience  of  re- 
straint, and  to  mothers  with  moods  for  cleanliness,  a 
maddening  anxiety  to  embrace  the  earth:  there  to  roll, 
and  welter,  and  wallow,  and  collect  a  spirit,  and  lay  up 
funds  of  health.  Young  Richard,  one  may  be  sure, 
attended  to  these  important  matters,  and  worked  along 
to  days  when  one  loses  one's  first  teeth,  and  acquires 
one's  first  roundabout,  by  trails  which  have  been  trav- 
eled by  every  healthy,  young  male  child  of  the  race 
since  Adam  flung  Eden  away  in  a  passion  of  experi- 
ment. 

Young  Richard  Croker's  earliest  schooldays  were 
passed  in  an  edifice  which  stood  at  the  corner  of  Madi- 


ma  FIRST  SCHOOL.  15 

eon  Avenue  and  Twenty-sixth  Street,  on  ground  now 
covered  by  Madison  Square  Garden.  At  that  time  his 
home  was  on  Twenty-eighth  Street  near  Fourth 
Avenue. 

It  has  been  the  frequent  effort  of  those  who,  by  virtue 
— or  vice — of  an  opposition  in  politics,  were  from  time 
to  time  critics  of  Richard  Croker,  to  intimate  rather 
than  set  forth  that  he  found  his  babyhood,  and  as  well 
his  boyhood,  in  an  atmosphere  of  evil.  They  would 
have  one  believe  that  he  had  his  upbringing  in  the 
"  slums."  They  do  not  define  "  slums  "  in  this  con- 
nection, but  concede  the  term  to  be  a  synonym  for  all 
cesspools  of  general  sin;  and,  proceeding  on  the  assump- 
tion that  naught  good  may  come  from  Nazareth,  they 
attain  by  graceful  swoops  to  the  conclusion  that  every- 
one, crop  and  output  of  the  "  slums,"  must  perforce  be 
vile.  Without  pausing  to  contend  with  these  notable 
moralists  who  provide  this  theory,  one  will  go  straight 
to  the  fact  that  in  the  fifties  the  region  indicated  as 
young  Richard's  home-spot  was  one  most  reputable  and 
quiet  of  the  town,  with  the  same  claim  to  be  distin- 
guished as  a  "  slum  "  as  have  the  present  corners  of 
Fifty-eighth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue.  Young  Rich- 
ard's home  was  a  scene  of  quiet  and  peace,  the  hall 
of  order  and  religion,  as  must  be  homes  where  such 
spirits  as  his  mother  prevail  as  chief  influences.  And 
the  neighborhood  to  surround  it  had  similar  decorous 
atmosphere. 

It  has  been  said  that  young  Richard  Croker's  first 
school  was  at  Twenty-sixth  Street  and  Madison  Avenue. 
This  seminary  was  of  the  quasi-primitive  character  of 
fifty  years  ago.  There  was  but  one  teacher,  the 
scholars  sat  on  benches,  and  a  box  of  clean  white  sand, 


16  RICHARD  CROKER. 

wherein  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  might  be  traced 
with  the  finger  of  the  young  idea  a-learning,  had  the 
place  of  blackboard.  Young  Kichard  continued  to 
take  his  young  draughts  at  this  well-spring  of  learning 
for  divers  years;  indeed  until  he'd  attained  the  age  of 
twelve.  He  was  not  in  this  day  famed  for  that  book- 
hunger  which  devours  knowledge  by  chapters.  Young 
Richard  didn't  like  books;  he  felt  the  lot  of  the  stu- 
dent burdensome.  He  was  a  true  Croker,  and  his 
thoughts  ran  to  horses  and  dogs,  and  his  heart  was  full 
of  a  love  of  athletics.  School  was  hateful;  lessons 
were  exercises  of*  pain.  Young  Eichard  found  his  joy 
in  small  explorations  and  those  adventures  by  flood 
and  field  which  Upper  Manhattan  and  the  East  Kiver 
afforded.  Bearing  in  thought  the  above,  it  goes  the 
more  to  the  credit  of  young  Richard,  when,  conquer- 
ing that  spirit  of  outdoors  which  possesses  him,  he 
sticks  stubbornly  to  his  bench  and  his  book  until  his 
lesson  is  in  hand  and  the  approval  of  the  pedagogue 
obtained. 

Whether  or  no  one  is  to  believe  with  Campbell  that 
"  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before  "  will  hang 
partly  by  one's  ability  for  the  reasonable,  and  partly  by 
that  hard-pan  of  superstition  whereon  the  foundations 
of  one's  nature  are  laid.  The  subject  surely  will  gain 
no  illumination  here.  Apropos  of  this,  however,  many 
who  in  boyhood  were  schoolmates  of  young  Richard, 
and  who  have  since  borne  witness  to  him  as  that  "  un- 
checked autocrat,"  to  borrow  an  enemy's  description, 
who,  with  a  firm  wisdom  and  a  wise  mildness,  has  di- 
rected the  government  of  hardby  four  millions  of  folk, 
declare  that  his  boyhood  gave  abundant  hint  of  that 
talent  of  domination  which  in  later  years  has  so  filled 


THE  PHARISEE.  17 

his  hand  with  affairs.  I  confess  myself  victim  to  a  con- 
siderable distrust  of  this.  It  is  an  easy  and  a  popular 
exercise  for  many,  sometimes  led  by  fondness  and  again 
by  hate,  to  roam  away  to  the  youth  of  folk  confessedly 
powerful,  and  read  in  their  baby-pages  the  story  of  tre- 
mendous deeds  to  come.  It  was  so  with  Caesar,  with 
Cromwell,  with  Churchill,  with  Napoleon,  with  Wel- 
lington, with  Washington,  with  Franklin,  with  Lincoln, 
with  Grant.  And  it's  as  natural  in  the  case  of  Croker. 

Be  sure  I  am  well  aware  of  the  risk  to  be  run  while 
coupling  the  name  of  Croker  with  that  procession  of 
monumented  leaders  which  precedes  it.  Only  the  dead 
are  great.  No  arm  is  mighty  until  touched  of  that 
palsy  of  the  bier;  no  tongue  speaks  wisdom  until 
dumbed  with  the  gag  of  the  grave.  And  in  Croker's 
instance  there  is  a  political  opposition  to  find  fault. 
There  be  those  who,  for  a  disappointment  of  place  or 
a  fear  of  defeat  hereafter — they  whose  partisanship  is 
their  intelligence,  and  who  feel  with  their  spleen — will 
writhe  in  sneers  at  such  hooking-up.  Napoleon  and 
Croker!  Grant  and  Croker!  they  will  almost  die  at  it! 
And  there  is  the  tribe  of  the  Pharisee,  a  prevailing  sept 
in  these  streets,  who  thank  Heaven  they  are  not  as 
other  men;  who,  clothed  of  a  white  shirt  and  a  snivel, 
pretend  to  patronize  the  race;  whose  notion  of  respect- 
ability is  a  notion  of  riches,  and  who,  with  that 
thought  in  their  souls,  would  rather  be  respectable 
than  right;  whose  belief  goes  to  it  that  the  best  dressed 
citizen  is  the  best  citizen — these  will  scoff  mightily  at 
this.  Caesar  and  Croker!  Wellington  and  Croker!  it 
will  eat  into  their  ears  as  blasphemy! 

This  is  a  time  of  snobs  in  a  town  of  snobs,  and  the 
pole-star  of  snobs  is  fashion.  'Democracy  is  unfashion- 


18  RICHARD  CROKER. 

able,  Tammany  Hall  is  unfashionable,  Croker  is  un- 
fashionable with  these  bandarlog — thank  Providence 
and  Kipling  for  the  word! — rehearsed  above.  It  may 
move  to  one's  composure  to  remember  that  here  in  this 
very  town  Washington  and  Franklin,  and  later  Jeffer- 
son, Burr,  and  Jackson,  and  in  our  own  day  Lincoln 
and  Grant,  were  similarly  chattered  and  mouthed 
against  by  these  folk  and  their  forbears.  Such  critics 
should  be  silent  for  a  word.  Their  own  clamorous  and 
resentful  tale  of  Eichard  Croker  should  put  them 
down.  By  their  story  he  dominates  the  town — their 
town — like  a  Colossus,  and  has  for  years;  he  holds  it 
helpless  in  his  hand;  drives  it  north,  or  south,  or  east, 
or  west,  like  cattle  at  his  will.  He  may  bury  it  with 
taxes  or  batter  it  to  pieces  with  its  own  ordinances;  in 
short — such  is  their  story — he  controls  them  and  mil- 
lions more  in  all  they  hold  publicly  dear,  and  of  mo- 
ment and  civil,  good  value.  By  this,  their  relation 
and  that  of  their  tin-pan  press,  Croker,  among  nearly 
four  millions  of  people  defended  by  their  ballots  and 
with  Albany  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  has  conquered 
to  himself  a  coign  of  absolute  autocracy.  And  all  with- 
out pedigree  or  pocketbook,  or  any  kindred  influence 
so  potent  in  this  town's  abjection,  wherewith  to  make 
his  way.  Borne  in  the  time  of  Caesar  was  a  hamlet  to 
New  York;  Paris  in  Napoleon's  day  a  village.  By  their 
very  slanders  his  foes  force  Croker's  name  upon  the 
roster  of  the  world's  conquerors,  and  make  him  great 
before  his  friends  have  moved. 

Nor  do  they  solve  defeat  by  epithet;  they  but  despite 
themselves.  To  say  that  Croker  is  corrupt,  or  dis- 
honest, or  ignorant,  or  of  inferior  and  little  girth  in 
mentality  or  morals,  is  to  call  him  weak  five  times. 


ON  STATESMEN.  1& 

None  of  these  is  an  element  of  strength;  one  and  all 
they  make  for  downfall,  not  success.  And  as  a  pro- 
posal it  seems  clear  that,  once  one  concedes  one's  own 
conquest,  whatever  of  a  vile  weakness  one  may  charge 
upon  one's  conqueror,  one  but  makes  one's  self  both 
viler,  weaker  still.  Croker's  foes  picture  him  a  fashion 
of  mal-Jupiter,  who,  if  he  would,  could  blast  all  good 
city  things  by  the  mere  lightnings  of  misrule.  If  this 
be  sooth,  then  failing  fame  for  what  he  is,  he  should 
be  given  it  for  that  which  he  is  not;  if  he's  not  to  have  a 
niche  for  what  he  has  done,  he  should  at  least  gain  one 
for  what  he  doesn't  do.  But  what  accounteth  argu- 
ment! As  was  said  above,  the  great  are  ever  dead;  and 
in  the  fact  of  a  tomb  there  often  hides  the  fact  of  a 
re-baptism.  "What  is  a  statesman,  Mr.  Speaker?" 
asked  Thomas  Brackett  Eeed  on  a  House  occasion  when 
he  had  been  much  quoted  to,  not  to  say  belabored,  in 
debate  with  the  utterances  of  "  statesmen  "  not  one  of 
whom  then  breathed.  "  If  we  are  to  be  controlled  by 
what  '  statesmen '  have  said,  then  let  me  ask  again, 
Mr.  Speaker,  what  is  a  statesman?  I'll  tell  you  what 
a  statesman  is.  A  statesman  is  a  dead  politician." 

But  we  must  pause.  Where  were  we  when  this 
squall  struck  to  drive  us  so  far  to  leeward  of  a  course? 
We  were,  I  recall,  in  the  midst  of  certain  distrusts  con- 
cerning stories  told  of  Croker's  boyhood  deeds  which 
foreshadowed  his  present  generalship  of  men.  And 
these  distrusts  are  just.  Never  does  one  note  an  adult 
Hercules  going  about,  clothed  of  power,  club,  and  lion- 
skin,  but  one  encounters  a  crowd  of  courtiers  tagging 
at  his  hocks,  ready  with  romance  of  how  in  his  cradle- 
days  he  choked  some  python  sent  by  some  hate-moved 
Juno  to  coilfully  compass  his  destruction.  Thus  it  is 


20  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

well  and  cautious  to  lay  aside  without  retelling  not  a 
few  traditions  touching  Croker's  youth  which  have  been 
offered.  His  boyhood,  as  well  as  one  may  know,  was 
usual  and  commonplace.  If  attributes  there  were  em- 
phatic in  him,  they  were  traits  of  a  quiet,  steady,  pains- 
taking intelligence;  honesty,  a  soul  for  justice,  and  a 
courage  that  never  swerved. 

Coupled  with  these  was  a  physical  strength  uncom- 
mon to  the  point  of  the  phenomenal.  Young  Richard 
as  a  boy  was  what  -is  termed  "  small  of  his  age."  Even 
at  full  growth  he  weighed  but  one  hundred  and 
forty  pounds.  Now,  as  he  nears  sixty  years,  grown 
broader,  thicker,  and  heavier  of  limb,  the  scales  tell  his 
story  with  one  hundred  and  eighty-five.  But  while 
physically  small  as  a  boy, — and  by  no  means  gargan- 
tuan as  a  man,  with  a  stature  of  five  feet,  seven  inches, 
— young  Richard  was  proportioned  with  such  accuracy 
and  nice  purpose  of  power  that  his  strength  of  limb 
and  body  was  a  proverb  before  he'd  gained  his  fifteenth 
year.  This  muscle-force  among  savages  and  boys  has 
ever  been  a  pedestal  of  dignity,  and  frequently  marks 
the  leader;  and  the  fact  that  young  Richard  from  his 
pinafore  days  was  a  captain  among  his  companions,  by 
virtue  of  some  tacit  commission  granted  by  them,  may 
find  its  source  therein. 

This  element  of  physical  strength  is  not  to  be  de- 
spised. It  sits  on  the  front  row  with  other  forms  of 
genius.  Nor  is  it  bound  to  modesty  and  to  be  uncov- 
ered in  the  presence  of  mere  intelligence,  or  a  genius  of 
some  other,  gaudier  hue.  Your  Tom  Cribb  takes  his 
place  with  your  Newton,  your  Lely,  your  Phidias,  your 
Wren,  your  Handel,  or  what  champion  you  will.  He 
got  his  brawn  where  Newton  got  his  brains, — at  the 


PHYSICAL    GENItTS.  21 

same  bargain  counter  of  Nature,  and  paid  the  same 
price.  Why,  then,  may  he  not  wear  the  one  as  proudly 
as  the  other  does  the  last?  Or  why  should  some  genius 
of  ear,  or  eye,  or  hand  of  nerve-fineness,  look  over  the 
poor  fist-genius  who  is  born  to  batter  those  features  of 
mouth  and  nose  and  ears  and  eyes  which  a  Lely  is  born 
to  paint,  a  Phidias  to  carve,  a  Handel  to  compose  a 
hymn  for,  and  for  which  a  Wren  or  an  Angelo  is  to 
build  a  church?  Even  that  poor  thing,  a  millionaire, 
one  vulgarly  such  from  his  cradle,  is  warranted  of  as 
much  pride  in  his  money  as  any  of  these  in  his  gift. 
He  came  to  his  special  capital  of  a  million  by  the  same 
effort  that  each  of  the  others  came  to  his — that  is, 
none  at  all.  Wherefore,  then,  should  any  be  swollen 
when  so  brief  a  comment  exhibits  that  the  fat  man 
of  a  sideshow  is  born  heir  to  as  much  of  honest  honor 
as  any  Columbus  sailing,  or  any  Herschel  staring  at  a 
star? 

There  is  one  story  of  young  Eichard  Croker  which 
tells  favorably  of  his  progress.  At  the  age  of  eleven 
he  was  by  his  preceptor  installed  "late  monitor "  of 
that  school  which,  as  aforesaid,  daily  droned  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Twenty-sixth  Street  and  Madison  Avenue. 
Here  was  credit;  because  no  pupil  not  prompt  and 
perfect  in  his  studies,  and  on  time  at  the  morning  bell- 
tap,  ever  rose  to  such  a  height.  Yet  there  dwelt  a  peril 
in  such  eminence.  It  was  the  "  late  monitor's  "  duty 
to  seek  forth  the  truant  in  his  desertion  and  bring  him 
to  school  and  to  justice.  And  if  the  truant-felon  were  a 
sturdy  rogue,  one  older,  stronger,  taller  than  the  "  late 
monitor,"  it  might  well  befall  that  the  latter  would  win 
much  sore  fortune  in  his  work.  This  fact  opened  sadly 
to  the  eyes  of  young  Eichard  on  the  first  day  of  his 


22  jRICHARD 

high  trust.  Elate  with  promotion,  young  Richard 
came  to  school  clothed  with  his  Sunday  vestments,  the 
better  to  glorify  his  exaltation.  On  this  morning  it 
had  pleased  the  worshipful  taste  of  the  "  biggest  boy  in 
school  " — he  was  a  turgid,  sullen  villain  of  a  boy,  and  a 
born  battle  hawk — to  turn  truant.  Young  Richard 
as  "  late  monitor  "  was  dismissed  to  his  arrest. 

"And,  Richard/'  observed  the  teacher  by  way  of  part- 
ing counsel,  "  if  Bobby  doesn't  come  peaceably,  I'd  let 
him  alone.  He  is  bigger,  older,  and  stronger  than  you, 
and  a  bad,  quarrelsome  boy;  and  if  he  refuses  to  re- 
turn with  you,  it's  no  matter.  I  can  tell  his  father 
to-night,  and  rest  secure  he'll  flay  him  rarely." 

That  the  malefactor  was  older  and  bigger  than  he, 
young  Richard  knew;  that  he  was  stronger,  he  much 
doubted.  Moreover,  the  suggestion  to  tamely  accept 
refusal  of  arrest  from  the  derelict,  and  return  without 
him,  met  with  no  grace  from  young  Richard,  who  was 
himself  of  a  proud  stomach,  and  in  whom  dwelt  a  war- 
willingness  none  the  less  healthy  for  being  generally 
asleep.  He  made  private  decision  to  engage  the  enemy 
if  he  showed  his  teeth.  However,  he  offered  no  retort 
to  the  teacher's  cautious  advice,  and  felt  nothing  be- 
yond regret  that  in  a  foolish  weakness  to  be  splendid 
he'd  worn  his  "  new  clothes,"  and  so  exposed  them  to 
that  present  rough  weather  whereof  the  overture  was 
at  hand. 

Young  Richard  located  his  quarry  in  Thompson's 
Tavern,  a  hostelry  just  across  Madison  Square  from  the 
schoolhouse,  and  which  stood  on  the  now  site  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel.  As  the  teacher  had  fore-feared, 
Bobby  refused  every  suggestion  of  school.  He 
have  none  of  it  for  that  day;  and  waived  aside  the  cfl 


THE  LATE  MONITOR.  23 

mand  of  the  "  late  monitor,"  and  as  well  his  argument, 
as  trifles  light  as  air. 

With  a  sigh  for  his  "  new  clothes/'  but  never  a  hint 
in  his  young  heart  of  quitting  his  capture  now  it  was 
made,  the  "  late  monitor  "  unbuckled  to  his  task.  The 
war  was  long,  desperate,  and  red;  for  Bobby,  obdurate, 
strong,  and  hard  of  temper,  stiff-necked  and  perverse, 
was  no  simple  enterprise.  But  the  "late  monitor"  had 
his  way.  His  soul  was  as  immitigably  set  against  de- 
feat in  that  day  as  it  has  been  since.  With  the  last 
word,  Bobby,  broken-hearted,  subjugated,  and  with  a 
face  like  a  scandal,  was  haled  to  that  teacher  and 
those  books  on  which  he'd  turned  his  morning  back. 
But  the  "late  monitor's"  costume  had  forfeited  its  title 
of  "new."  Tatters,  rags,  and  earth-stains,  the  pride 
had  gone  from  it,  a  sacrifice  to  duty.  Bobby  was  no 
better  off;  and  as  he  pillowed  his  errant  head  that  night 
he  could  look  back  on  a  day  busy  with  desolation.  The 
"  late  monitor  "  had  mauled  him,  the  teacher  had  fer- 
uled him,  and,  his  parent,  a  teamster,  had  gridironed 
his  hide  with  the  ancestral  cart  whip. 

This  tale  of  boyish  chance-medley  would  have  but 
idle  use  save  for  that  it  tells,  at  an  early  age,  of  the 
high  heart  and  that  incapacity  of  failure  which  has 
brought  the  subject  of  this  sketch  so  far.  There  is  a 
character  of  mugwump-moralist,  who,  himself  of  flac- 
cid muscle  and  a  hare's  heart,  is  found  to  set  physical 
courage,  with  physical  strength,  low  in  the  list  of 
virtues.  These  poodle-folk — lapdogs  of  Money  they 
frequently  are,  or  vassal-nurses  of  such  lap-furniture — 
these  poodle-folk,.  I  say,  railing  at  mastiff-folk,  are 
wrong.  They  make  the  error  common  of  our  vain  hu- 
manity, and  believe  that  everything  to  differ  from 


24  RICHARD  CROKER. 

themselves  is  worse  than  themselves.  Physical  stamina 
and  courage,  and  of  that  sandstone  sort  that  will,  when 
needs  crowd,  stay  the  brunt  of  actual,  physical  conflict, 
is  the  first  requisite  of  your  best  man;  and  he  may  no 
more  be  constructed  wanting  these,  than  might  a  house 
wanting  foundations  and  footing  stones.  There  is, 
to  misplace  a  word,  a  phrenology  of  muscle  which  has 
precedence  over  other  phrenologies,  and  a  good  heart  is 
oftener  child  of  a  good  stomach  than  of  a  good  head. 

To  the  ear  of  our  mugwump-moralist  this  will  trench 
on  savagery.  Yet  that  is  no  harm.  We  cheat  our- 
selves with  an  appearance,  and  call  it  civilization. 
And  while  we  do,  there's  much  of  argument  "to  leave  it 
far  from  sure  that  the  perfect  savage  is  not  the  perfect 
man.  Your  philosopher,  aware  of  his  limitations, 
might  admit  the  possibility  of  a  civilization  which 
would  be  superior  to  savagery.  Also  your  philosopher, 
alive  to  a  gravitation  in  manners  and  in  morals  as  much 
as  to  a  gravitation  in  matter,  might  well  doubt  if  there 
was  ever  one  so  good.  There  be  those  on  the  ramparts 
of  an  isolated,  high  indifference  who,  viewing  the  sub- 
ject, have  in  it  no  interest  other  than  the  interest  of 
discussion.  Such  at  the  worst  are  unbiased.  To  these 
your  civilization  is  the  putridity  of  that  meat  which  as 
savagery  was  sound  and  hale.  They  would  name  you 
a  flock  of  evils  owned  of  civilization  which  are  stran- 
gers to  the  savage,  before  you  might  credit  one  virtue 
to  civilization  which  savagery  lacks.  Conceit  may 
clamor  and  self-love  take  the  floor;  the  fact  lives  that 
man  is  physical  before  he's  either  moral  or  mental, 
and  that  the  stomach  sways  the  soul. 

True!  there  is  a  school  of  high-thinking  adherents  of 
the  over-soul  to  be  shocked  by  this.  With  talents  for 


THE  OVER-SOULERS.  25 

melody  rather  than  deep  thought,  these  are  to  be  con- 
vinced by  word-jingling.  Mistaking  sensation  for 
sense,  they  discover  the  reasonable  by  discovering  the 
rhythmic.  These  will  defy  the  above.  Such  melo- 
dious intelligences,  with  whom  tempo,  not  substance, 
controls,  may  be  marched  or  waltzed  or  polkaed  to  a 
conclusion  without  understanding  a  premise  or  realiz- 
ing the  route  which  disputation  takes. 

Once,  to  illustrate,  a  congregation  of  these  folk,  gifted 
with  music-boxes  instead  of  minds,  was  gathered  unto 
itself  to  read  and  consider,  sentence  by  sentence,  an 
ambling  output  of  that  Emerson  who  is  Mahomet  of 
their  creed. 

"Education  is  the  tar-pot  of  civilization,"  read  the 
loud  elocutionist  intrusted  with  the  book;  that  was  the 
first  sentence. 

Discussion,  not  to  say  elucidation,  was  now  a  happy 
order.  What  did  Emerson  mean?  For  a  moment  the 
congregation  was  silent;  only  for  a  moment.  Then  it 
broke  forth.  The  Concord  disquisitor  was  easily 
understandable.  There  were  a  dozen  ready  to  expound 
him.  The  sentence  was  of  those  rugged  figures 
for  which  Emerson  had  fame.  It  was  rude,  but  none 
the  less  lucent  and  beautiful.  It  was  the  rough 
nugget  where  others,  of  a  vainer  and  more  artificial 
merit,  would  have  given  one  the  conventional  beaten 
gold.  That  was  it.  "  Education  is  the  tar-pot  of 
civilization!  "  Why,  surely!  it  was  as  plain  as  the  nose 
on  one's  face! 

It  chanced  that  the  reader  took  another  look  at  the 
book.  Horrors!  there  had  been  a  misdeal.  It  wasn't 
"tar-pot."  It  read:  "Education  is  the  tap-root  of 
civilization."  All  this  explanation  and  appreciation 


26  RICHARD   CROKER. 

had  gone  adrift.  That  metaphor  of  the  "tar-pot," 
clear  a  moment  before,  closed  like  a  clam  and  became 
at  once  inscrutable.  The  congregation  adjourned, 
leaving  its  that  day's  worship  of  the  phrase-saint 
hanging  by  the  gambrels. 

Those  who,  while  enthroning  the  mental  and  the 
sentimental,  would  make  plebeian  the  physical,  should 
be  brought  to  this  reflection.  There  is  no  wife  to  love 
her  husband  so  dearly,  should  a  toothache  be  made  the 
penalty  of  her  love,  curable  only  by  divorce,  but  would 
file  her  petition  by  the  week's  close.  This  is  offered 
not  for  any  lightness  of  a  wife's  love;  rather  for  that 
it  is  the  strongest  sentiment  of  which  humanity  is  en- 
dowed. No,  forsooth!  the  physical  is  in  the  saddle; 
savagery  sits  on  a  hill! 

This  sketch,  to  say  least,  is  becoming  highly  excur- 
sive. There  will  be  those  of  its  readers,  doubtless,  to 
marvel  at  its  long  legs  and  erratic  wanderings.  I  may 
as  well  vouchsafe  a  syllable  of  explanation.  When  I 
began,  after  some  thought  on  that  point  of  discursive- 
ness, I  took  the  bridle  off  and  turned  my  pencil  out  to 
pasture.  It  will  graze  where  God  pleases,  and  where 
the  grass  of  that  moment  grows  best  to  its  taste.  Like 
Sterne's  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  and  Southey's  "  Doctor," 
this  book  is  like  to  touch  a  multitude  of  matter  other 
than  its  subject.  But  to  recur: 

It  has  ever  been,  to  me  at  least,  a  matter  of  wonder 
that  civilization  was  so  denunciatory  of  savagery;  so 
imperiously  certain  of  its  own  superiority  thereunto. 
You  who  read  this,  and  whose  warm,  brave  wisdom  is 
capable  of  initiatory  decision  without  waiting  for  some 
other  to  speak  first,  tell  yourself,  or,  if  you  will,  the 
world,  wherein  civilization,  as  we  find  and  define  the 


EICHARD  CHOKER  AS  A  YOUTH. 


£y  Courtesy  of  XcClure'S  Magazine. 
Copyright,  /»(//,  The  S.  S.  McClure  Company. 


CIVILIZA  TION-SA  VA  GER  T.  27 

term,  offers  such,  successful  best  methods  of  this  paltry 
existence  of  ours?  You  know  New  York,  its  people 
fretting  like  maggots,  as  many  as  four  thousand  in  one 
block;  you  know  the  good  and  evil  ground  at  these 
mills.  Say,  then,  wherein  are  the  folk  present  of  this 
island  fortressed  of  a  surer  comfort  than  those  red- 
savage  folk  who  abode  here  three  centuries  ago?  Is 
liberty  your  lodestar?  Is  it  that  to  guide  you?  Why, 
then,  who  had  liberty  in  such  perfection  as  the  savage? 
He  had,  too,  his  laws,  and  respected  them;  he  had  his 
tribe,  and  was  a  patriot  fit  to  talk  with  William  Tell. 
He  fought  his  foe  like  a  Eichard  of  England,  and  loved 
his  friend  like  a  Jonathan.  As  for  his  religion — why, 
man,  the  test  of  religion  is  death.  And  your  savage 
met,  and  still  meets,  death  with  a  fortitude — and  what 
is  fortitude,  but  faith? — which  few  Christians  are 
found  to  mate.  And  there  were  none  without  whom 
he  feared;  no  one  within  to  molest  him  and  make  him 
afraid.  He  paid  neither  homage  to  power  nor  taxes 
to  men;  and  yet  his  privileges  were  as  wide  as  the 
world's  rim.  His  franchises  of  fagot,  vert,  and  venison 
had  never  a  limit.  He  might  eat  a  deer  a  day,  and 
burn  a  cord  of  wood  to  its  cookery.  It  may  be  said, 
again,  that  he  lived  a  better  life,  with  more  victory  of 
liberty,  comfort,  and  content,  than  ninety-five  per 
cent,  of  New  York  folk  to-day.  He  had  more  of  free- 
dom, and  was  more  his  own  man,  than  any  you  are  to 
meet  on  Broadway. 

Civilization  is  an  artifice,  and  there  be  those  so 
trapped  thereby  that  they  conceive  of  no  triumph  of 
the  natural.  They  are  "  cultured,"  evince  it  by  coats 
from  Bell  and  gowns  by  Felix,  and  find  thought-models 
in  Chesterfield's  "Letters"  to  his  son.  They  will 


28  RICHARD  CROKER. 

compliment  a  sunset  by  saying  that  it  looks  like  a  scene 
in  opera. 

As  I  write  this,  I  look  up  to  one  of  these  climaxes  of 
an  enlightened  age;  I  ask  him  what  name  he  regards 
as  a  first  expositor  of  civilization.  He  promptly  gives 
the  palm  to  Chesterfield. 

"  Yes,  indeed!  "  says  he;  "I  hold  that  civilization  in 
its  best  expression  means  gentility;  and  Chesterfield 
taught  the  best  gentility  in  the  world.  Horace  Wai- 
pole  was  next." 

As  side-light  on  these  highest  types,  not  to  say 
teachers,  of  our  civilization,  it  might  be  added  that 
Walpole,  who  chattered  scandal  and  cheap  tittle-tattle 
throughout  nine  volumes  without  one  word  of  any 
virtue  that  dwelt  above  the  pocket,  found  his  own 
paternity  at  bay  in  a  fog-bank  of  doubt.  Chesterfield, 
on  his  part,  wedded  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  the 
First  George  and  the  courtesan  Duchess  of  Kendal; 
was  called  "  a  dirty  little  tea-table  scoundrel  who  talks 
scandal  and  makes  trouble  in  families,"  by  his  unac- 
knowledging  brother-in-law,  George  the  Second;  and 
wrote  the  very  letters  which  are  such  "  lessons  of  gen- 
tility "  to  a  son  of  the  left  hand  who  wore  the  bar  sinis- 
ter with  the  Chesterfield  arms.  Of  the  letters  them- 
selves, Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Boswell,  that  "  they  taught 
the  morals  of  a  harlot  with  the  manners  of  a  dancing 
master." 

Excellent  exemplars  these,  of  a  vaunting  civilization! 
I  hold  the  red  savage  to  be  a  better  man  than  either. 
No,  I  do  not  seek,  nor  even  care,  to  set  the  brakes  on 
any  onward,  and  mayhap  downward,  rush  of  what  is 
named  "  civilization."  And  if  I  could  do  so,  lodged  in 
an  indifference  to  any  racial  end?  I  would  not  turn 


CIVILIZATION— ALCOHOL.  29 

'hand  nor  head  to  start  or  steer  or  stop  the  age.  I  am 
alone  eager  over  two  points.  Being  civilized  myself, 
dwelling  in  the  midst  of  its  results  and  as  much  its 
bondslave  as  any  other,  I  would  still  testify  to  an 
intelligence  equal  to  the  discovery  of  the  swindle  of 
it,  added  to  an  honesty  sufficient  for  that  discovery's 
setting-forth.  Civilization!  it  is  like  an  appetite  for 
alcohol.  The  evidence  which  protects  the  one  will 
save  the  other. 


m. 


SCHOOL    DAYS — A    TRADE. 

Jag.  Then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel, 

And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school. 

— As  You  Like  II. 

THERE  was  in  the  fifties  a  grammar  school  in  East 
Twenty-seventh  Street  which  had  certain  renown  in  its 
day  for  birch  and  thoroughness.  It  was  ruled  over 
by  one  Lafayette  Olney,  who  was  learned,  stern,  and 
grim.  Moreover,  he  was  a  man  of  conscience;  which, 
for  the  students,  made  matters  worse.  In  that  day  all 
pedagogues  were  derived  from  Massachusetts;  and  it 
may  have  been,  albeit  gossip  is  tongueless  as  to  the  fact, 
that  our  Olney,  the  Dr.  Birch  adverted  to  of  fifty  years 
ago,  was  of  a  clan  with  that  later  one — half  ice,  half 
iron — who  took  place  as  Attorney  General  in  a  day  of 
Grover  Cleveland.  There  was  a  chill  brittleness  of 
temper  owned  of  both  which  might  go  some  space  to 
prove  this. 

Exhausting  the  supply  at  Twenty-sixth  Street  and 
Madison  Avenue,  young  Eichard  Croker,  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  reported  for  a  further  and  higher  enlighten- 
ment to  the  Olney  Grammar  School.  There  he  toiled 
four  years,  and  then  went  forth  with  the  mark  of  a  fair 
scholarship  in  such  branches,  and  to  such  limits,  as 
made  up  the  programme  of  learning  with  that  place. 
That  was  the  last  of  young  Richard's  book-studies. 

30 


CROKER  8  EDUCATION.  31 

There  has  been  much  said  of  invidious,  sneering  sort 
touching  the  book-attainments  of  Kichard  Croker. 
Those  folk  of  falsity  and  venom  who  at  one  time  put 
fictional  millions  in  his  pocket  for  the  sake  of  asking 
on  a  next  mud-flinging  occasion,  "  Where  did  you 
get  it  ? " — spur  themselves  at  another  in  efforts  to 
clothe  him  with  the  book-ignorance  of  a  Hottentot. 
This  last  is  warp  and  woof  of  the  same  bolt  of  cloth 
with  kindred  untruths  to  curl  the  tongue  of  daily  en- 
mity of  Croker.  His  book-acquirements  compare 
evenly  with  theirs  who,  graduating  at  our  common  pub- 
lic schools,  stand  on  the  threshold  of  a  preparation  for 
our  universities.  At  that  point  where  others  go  to 
college,  young  Richard  Croker  halted  in  his  book- 
searchings  to  learn  a  trade.  And  many  of  the  greatest 
names  of  history  did  the  like,  and  met  no  injury 
thereby. 

Your  college  is  graceful;  and  yet  it  by  no  means 
must  be  in  this  world  of  ours.  It  is  ornamental;  but 
like  the  brass-work  and  dead-wood  about  a  ship  that 
make  no  mighty  contribution  whether  to  the  safety  or 
the  speed  of  the  vessel.  There's  too  much  granted  in 
favor  of  a  course  at  college.  And  results  do  not  sus- 
tain the  concession. 

It  was  a  handful  of  years  astern  when  a  gentleman — 
a  writer  he  was — visited  one  of  these,  our  high  semi- 
naries; one  not  breathlessly  distant  from  Boston. 
The  magazine  article  he  was  commissioned  to  write 
would  be  excellent  advertisement  of  the  school. 
Therefore  the  invader  was  chaperoned  in  his  lookings 
about,  and  replied  to  in  his  question-putting  by  one  of 
the  college  heads.  It  would  be  impolite  to  name  him; 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  was  one  commissioned  of 


32  RICHARD  CROKER. 

highest  authority,  so  far  as  the  college  was  concerned. 
He  might  take  the  institution  and  put  "  her  full  steam 
ahead/'  or  "  set  her  back  on  both  wheels/'  as  river  folk 
might  say,  just  as  he  should  decide.  I  wax  thus  nau- 
tical, perhaps,  because  in  their  pretense  our  colleges 
occur  in  a  character  of  ferryboat,  bearing  the  traveler 
in  search  of  learning  from  his  natural  shore  of  dark 
illiteracy  to  that  other  blinding  of  book-light. 

Our  college  chief  and  the  emissary  of  ink  fell  into 
joint  debate.  It  was  provoked  by  the  visitor,  who  was 
thereunto  incited  by  an  irritation  which  had  been 
gnawing  about  the  roots  of  his  temper  for  two 
New  England  days.  He  had  come  from  the  West.  To 
questions,  he  confessed  this  ignobility  of  emanation; 
also,  that  specifically  he  was  not  born  in  New  England, 
didn't  live  in  New  England,  never,  in  purblind  and 
degrading  truth,  had  seen  New  England  until  this 
visiting  occasion.  These  facts  known,  our  wayfarer 
was  at  once  entreated  with  a  tolerant  commiseration 
— a  pitying  disdain — by  those  whom  he  encountered, 
and  whose  brighter  fortunes  made  them  born  children 
to  the  soil.  In  brief,  the  natives  patronized  him  with 
an  air  which  was  two  parts  charity  and  one  contempt, 
for  that  regional  misfortune  of  his  Western  birth. 
Thus  was  our  writer  roiled  and  made  subject  to  hot  re- 
sentments. Thus,  perhaps,  was  he  become  willing  to  dis- 
turb with  interrogations,  such  as  a  Goth  might  put  to 
a  Roman,  the  lofty  complacency  of  that  great  educator 
who,  from  a  two-ply  motive  composed  of  willingness  to 
answer  queries  and  anxiety  to  make  safe  whatever  of 
personal  property,  both  loose  and  little,  might  be  lying 
about,  was  guide  to  his  tour.  It  was  that  old  question 
which  Cicero  stole  from  Lucius  Cassius:  Cui  bonof 


THE  COLLEGE  GOOD.  33 

"  What  good  is  your  college? "  asked  the  writer- 
barbarian  of  the  educator;  "  I've  been,  as  it  were,  all 
through  your  institution  with  a  lantern.  I've  gazed  at 
your  libraries,  I've  glanced  at  your  dining-halls.  I've 
experienced  your  recitation  rooms,  and  borne  testimony 
to  your  gymnasiums,  where  students  ambitious  of 
fractures  or  dislocations  may  find  every  last  appliance 
to  aid  them  on  their  way.  But  at  the  finish  I'm  moved 
to  ask:  What  good  is  it — what  does  the  student  get?  " 

"  I  don't  understand,"  retorted  the  educator. 

"  This  is  the  idea,"  explained  the  barbarous  one. 
"  The  value  of  anything  depends  on  comparison  of 
what  one  gives  with  what  one  gets.  No  one  will  part 
with  dollars  to  gain  dimes.  Everything  in  its  attain- 
ment must  cost  less  than  it  comes  to,  or  the  investment 
is  a  failure.  You  have  told  me  that  you  can  take  a 
youth  of  fifteen  of  certain  book  acquirements  and  give 
him  one  year  of  preparation.  Then  with  four  years  at 
your  college  he  is  graduated;  in  all  five  years.  At  fif- 
teen it  is  a  popular  theory  that  one  has  fifty-five  years 
to  live;  a  theory,  be  it  told,  against  which  insurance 
tabulations  militate.  Taking  the  common  view  of  it, 
however,  you  demand  of  the  student — besides  the  fees 
— one-eleventh  of  his  life.  Therefore  I  ask:  What  do 
you  promise  the  student  in  return?  What  unusual 
ammunition  do  you  furnish  him  withal,  which  is  to  ren- 
der him  more  than  usually  effective  on  the  firing 
line  of  life?  Your  bed  and  board  don't  count;  for  they 
would  doubtless  find  their  equals  in  those  feasts  and 
feather  beds  which  he  left  behind  at  home.  Your 
athletics  don't  count;  for  every  health  result  would 
have  as  prompt  a  coming  if  the  student  involved  himself 
with  a  plow,  or  a  pile  of  cordwood,  for  spaces  similar  to 


34  mCHABto  CROKER. 

those  expended  in  the  gym.  The  benefit  must  there- 
fore lurk  in  the  curriculum.  And  so,  I  ask  again:  In 
exchange  for  that  one-eleventh  of  his  whole  remaining 
capital  of  years,  what  does  the  student  take?  " 

"  You  will  not  deny,"  observed  the  pedagogue,  with 
a  cold  acrimony,  "  that  the  student  gets  a  finished 
education?  " 

"  It  might  be  complained,"  replied  the  barbarian, 
"  that  you  too  much  limit  the  definition  of  the  term 
'  education/  A  man  might  know  about  a  coal  mine; 
how  to  discover,  and  open,  and  work,  and  market  his 
igneous,  jet  vein  of  wealth.  If  that  were  all,  you'd  call 
him  ignorant.  Lacking  this  knowledge,  however,  and 
with  an  ability  to  read  Greek,  he  might  lay  claim  to 
'  education/  One  might  be  wise  enough,  and  of  such 
deft,  ingenious  hand  as  to  build  and  sail  a  ship  around 
the  globe.  If  that  were  to  be  the  measure  of  his  ac- 
quirement you'd  write  him  ignorant.  Wanting  these 
abilities,  still  were  he  capable  of  some  utter  jugglery 
of  sky-high  mathematics;  or  to  translate  Caesar,  Sal- 
lust,  and  Virgil  as  he  ran,  you  might  permit  him  coin- 
age and  circulation  as  an  educated  man.  I  trust  that 
I  neither  ruffle  nor  weary  you;  but  speaking  of  the 
usual  and  so-called  classical  courses  of  your  school,  and 
of  the  good  to  be  child  thereof,  I'll  say  that  I  myself 
have  studied  both  Latin  and  Greek  until  I  was  ex- 
hausted, if  the  languages  were  not,  and  I'll  take  two 
bits  for  all  the  good  that's  flowed  from  it.  And  to  put 
it  bluntly:  Of  what  use  is  the  employ  of  Latin  and 
Greek  to  him  who  on  the  lines  of  law,  or  medicine,  or 
commerce,  or  literature,  to  say  nothing  of  trades  and 
callings  which  grapple  more  with  the  physical,  must 
win  his  daily  bread?  " 


GREEK  AND  LATIN.  35 

"  Greek  and  Latin! "  exclaimed  the  educator,  and 
his  tones  had  that  horror  which  a  priest  of  turbaned 
Ind  might  feel  at  insult  done  his  idol.  "  Of  what 
use  is  it  to  teach  Greek  and  Latin  ?  " 

"  Not  teach;  study/'  interrupted  the  barbarian.  "  I 
can  discern  a  profit  in  teaching  them;  but  speaking 
from  the  student's  end  of  the  alley,  I  ask,  why  should 
one  study  them?  " 

"  Why  ?  Even  in  your  own  business  of  writing/' 
cried  the  educator,  with  an  anti-iconoclastic  snort,  "  it 
is  worth  one's  while.  It  is  of  immense  importance. 
The  study  of  Latin  and  Greek  would  teach  you  the 
derivation  of  words — of  the  very  words  you  use." 

"  And  why  is  that  important  ?  "  pursued  the  bar- 
barian. "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you're  wrong  twice. 
The  languages  you  urge  are  but  halfway  houses  on  the 
trail  of  tongues.  One  might  learn  that  this  word,  or 
that,  had  come  blundering  down  the  lanes  of  time  from 
the  Greeks  or  Latins.  But  where  they  got  the  word, 
as  a  query,  would  be  left  in  the  dark.  Permitting  that 
thought  to  drift,  however,  and  speaking  as  one  who 
lives  by  them,  I  must  still  point  out  that  the  deriva- 
tion of  a  word  is  of  no  more  mark  to  one  who  writes 
or  talks  than  is  the  derivation  of  a  potato  or  a 
biscuit  to  one  who  eats.  Why  should  the  banqueter 
burn  with  mad  concern  as  to  whether  Eussia  or  Dakota 
was  mother  of  the  wheat,  or  Bermuda  or  Colorado  gave 
the  potato  birth?  The  culmination  with  our  supposi- 
titious Lucullus  is  biscuit  in  one  instance,  potato  in  the 
other,  and  the  advance  guard  of  his  interest  pushes  no 
further  afield.  And  so  of  words.  Their  ancestry  is 
only  of  imaginary  moment.  Surely,  its  discovery  isn't 
worth  one-eleventh  of  one's  life.  The  exploration  of 


36  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

one's  own  ancestry,  and  to  know  one's  own  personal 
derivation,  would  not — unless  the  estate  were  a 
bouncer — be  worth  the  loss  of  one  year  of  life.  And 
is  one  to  give  five  years  to  locate  the  profitless  head- 
waters of  a  word?  " 

Young  Eichard  was  now  sixteen  and  must  push  his 
worldly  way.  He  resolved  to  acquire  the  craft  of  a 
locomotive  machinist,  and  with  such  plan  in  his  mind 
found  enlistment  as  apprentice  in  the  Harlem  shops. 
And  in  those  days  that  was  a  brave  beginning. 

In  1859  New  York  City  was  a  fairer  field  of  effort, 
whether  one  followed  a  profession  or  a  trade,  than  it  is 
to-day.  Millionaires  were  not  so  rife;  there  was  none 
so  rich,  none  so  deadly  poor  as  now,  and  fortune  had 
more  even  distribution.  The  artisan  was  of  respect 
and  decent  weight.  He  was  not  taught  at  every  angle 
of  the  day  his  infinitesimal  quantity,  personal  and 
political,  in  the  equation  of  general  life.  And  he 
came  to  more.  The  town  was  smaller  by  nine-tenths. 
One  is  of  ten  times  the  remark  in  a  community  of  three 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  folk  that  one  is  in  one  of 
three  million  and  five  hundred  thousand.  And  men's 
view  of  wealth  was  smaller.  Then  he  was  rich  who 
had  twenty  thousand  dollars;  to-day  he  is  poor  with  a 
half  million. 

This  last  is  to  hatch  woe  like  a  serpent;  it  does  now. 
The  present  sows  the  wind  of  discontents  not  to  be 
satisfied;  the  future,  gusty  with  revolution,  is  to  reap 
the  whirlwind.  The  common  imagination  has  been 
debauched.  Until  one  has  at  least  five  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  one  is  of  no  New  York  notice,  even  by 
one's  self.  Without  it  there  are  folk  one  cannot  know, 
places  one  cannot  go,  things  one  cannot  have,  and 


THE  WALL  STREET  WAT.  37 

others  one  cannot  do.  And  he  who  starts  with  no 
capital  save  healthy  head  and  hands  has  no  more  of 
present  chance  of  gaining  five  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, by  methods  which  Heaven  will  call  honest,  than  he 
has — if  such  should  be  his  thought — of  haltering  the 
Hudson.  There's  but  one  way,  the  Wall  Street  way — 
the  way  of  the  gambler.  This  truth,  which  many  souls 
of  commingled  mendacity  and  ignorance  will  deny,  has 
such  broad  concession  that  every  man,  not  rich  by 
inheritance,  and  who  reaches  for  something  better  than 
a  destiny  of  hand-to-mouth,  is  in  the  ring  of  the  stock 
market  or  training  for  the  conflict. 

More  than  one  half  the  present  money  made  in  New 
York  is  not  the  reward  of  toil  in  any  honest  sense;  it 
is  won  at  stock-hazard.  And  that,  frequently,  by 
methods  of  lie  and  cheat  and  swindle  which  would  de- 
stroy with  the  disgrace  of  them  the  commonest  faro- 
den.  Were  it  not  for  the  laws,  and  an  innate  thinness 
of  profit  to  dwell  therein,  one  might  better  in  many 
cases  turn  from  stocks  to  be  of  the  craft  of  a  pick- 
purse;  for  with  morals  of  a  par,  the  padder  at  least 
escapes  the  Wall  Street  vice  of  an  inevitable  treachery 
to  one's  friends. 

Long  ago  the  homestead  of  Captain  Kidd,  the  pirate, 
occupied  the  site  of  the  present  Stock  Exchange.  I 
mentioned  the  fact  on  chance  occasion  to  a  speculator 
whose  breadth  of  operation  dealt  in  nothing  less  than 
millions.  A  gleam  shone  in  his  gray,  bold-searching  eye. 

"  Captain  Kidd,  eh!  "  he  chuckled.  "  Well,  if  he'll 
return,  he'll  find  his  former  residence  in  possession  of 
people  who  could  teach  him  his  trade.  There  are 
those  about  there  now  who  would,  by  comparison,  make 
Captain  Kidd  appear  like  a  canal  deck-hand." 


38  RICHARD  GROSES. 

That  deep  courtier  of  the  tape,  in  his  scorn  of  Kidd 
and  the  latter's  childish,  black-flag  commerce,  was  just. 
The  modern  pirate  lives  ashore;  he  has  stock  com- 
panies, not  ships;  his  batteries  are  dollars  and  he  trains 
his  guns  with  the  eye  of  fraud;  he  plunders  a  whole 
public  at  once,  and  not  the  trivial  cargo  of  one  cheap, 
starved  keel.  Aye!  by  the  standards  of  this  day,  Cap- 
tain Kidd  would  have  been  laughed  to  death  for  his 
simplicity,  not  hanged  for  his  crimes. 

In  instance:  There  was  a  recent  college-taught  youth 
— and  the  stream  of  his  family  found  its  head  among 
the  wooden  shoes  and  spinning  wheels  of  the  ancient 
Knickerbockers — whose  debt-budget  as  he  graduated 
was  large  enough  to  give  his  parent  a  pang. 

"  How  came  you  to  owe  so  much  ?  "  asked  the  parent, 
with  that  earnest  severity  which  springs  from  a 
wounded  bank-balance;  "  I  can't  understand  how  you 
got  so  deeply  in  debt." 

"It  was  for  money  borrowed  to  pay  my  losses  at 
poker,"  returned  the  son. 

"What!"  cried  the  parent;  "have  you  been  gam- 
bling?" 

"  Certainly  I  have,"  retorted  the  son;  "  you  surely 
should  understand,  father,  that  we  gentlemen  must 
gamble." 

"  Then  we  gentlemen  must  win,"  replied  the  father. 

This  rebuke  of  the  old  gentleman  is  valuable,  be- 
cause it  is  in  everything  the  text  from  which  the  daily 
sermon  of  New  York  City  life  is  preached.  There  is 
no  longer  a  moral  side  to  "business."  Get  money! 
methods  are  of  no  moment;  get  money!  Without  it 
you  are  nothing;  with  it,  everything.  Money  calls  for 
no  apology,  poverty  cannot  be  explained — in  New 


THE  HARLEM  SHOPS.  39 

York.  Possess  yourself  of  money,  enough  money,  and 
none  will  arise  to  discuss  the  strategy,  however  black, 
by  which  you  managed  its  capture.  The  New  York 
City  decalogue  lies  buried  in  that  objurgation  of  the 
father:  "  We  gentlemen  must  win." 

Young  Kichard  Croker  worked  in  the  Harlem  shops 
until  far  into  his  twenties.  And  he  learned  his  trade 
and  was  a  master  machinist  at  the  end.  In  a  day  when 
the  hand  wrought  most  and  its  task  gained  small  aid 
of  machinery,  young  Eichard  built  a  locomotive  engine 
complete,  from  the  tire  on  its  driver  to  the  bonnet  on 
its  stack;  fired  it  up,  and  ran  it  out  of  the  shops  on  its 
initial  trial. 

At  this  time  Eichard  Croker  was  as  silently  modest 
as  he  is  to-day.  It  is  remembered  among  those  who 
were  then  his  companions,  that  he  had  a  predeliction 
for  dress.  When  the  "  whistle  blew  "  it  was  his  first 
concern  to  get  home;  his  next  to  bathe,  and  to  don  his 
finest  raiment.  When  he  sat  down  to  supper — they  ate 
dinner  at  noon  in  that  crude  hour — he  was  as  well  ap- 
pareled as  his  wardrobe  would  permit. 

This  soap-and-water  tendency,  and  as  well  that  weak- 
ness C;f  the  spick-and-span,  won  young  Eichard  the 
unsafe  repute  of  dandyism.  I  say  "  unsafe,"  because 
his  fellows  of  the  shop,  who  wore  in  the  evening  the 
dress  they  had  worn  at  their  work,  felt  somewhat  criti- 
cised by  this  white-shirt  splendor  and  hailed  it  as  of  a 
spirit  which  felt  above  its  caste.  Their  objections 
might  have  taken  unpleasant  physical  form,  for  they 
were  of  a  lusty  brood,  and  hard  knocks  were  going,  had 
it  not  been  that  young  Eichard  owned  other  virtues  of 
a  stout-heart  kind  which  counterbalanced  his  insult- 
ing cleanliness  and  compelled  them  to  a  truce. 


40  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Young  Richard  was  a  profound  and  untiring  athlete. 
His  natural  physical  powers,  as  noted,  were  tre- 
mendous. These  he  was  scrupulous  to  multiply  by  every 
form  of  physical  exercise.  He  walked,  he  ran,  he 
wrestled,  he  boxed,  he  swam.  It  is  told  of  his  strength, 
by  a  former  Harlem  shopmate,  that  more  than  once  he 
beheld  young  Richard,  while  a  helper  turned  the  iron 
on  the  anvil,  beat  out  the  metal  with  a  forty-five  pound 
hammer  in  each  hand.  Nor  was  it  done  in  any  idle- 
ness of  pride;  the  lad  was  working.  Young  Richard's 
prodigious  strength  was  ever  a  cause  of  wonderment 
among  his  companions.  Remembering  the  tale  of 
Samson  and  the  hirsute  base  of  his  supplies,  they  were 
inclined  to  attribute  it  to  a  thick  fell  of  black  hair 
which  covered  his  back  and  shoulders  to  an  extent  com- 
parable only  with  the  coat  of  a  Newfoundland  dog. 

Young  Richard  was  at  home  in  the  water.  Among 
those  who  have  known  him  from  his  childhood,  memory 
runneth  not  to  a  day  when  he  wasn't  an  exhaustless 
swimmer.  Off  Long  Branch  on  one  occasion  young 
Richard  swam  ten  miles  for  his  pleasure  merely,  and 
by  way  of  holiday. 

Richard  Croker,  too,  is  one  entirely  convinced  of 
the  harmless  quality  of  sharks. 

"  We  were  at  Palm  Beach,"  said  a  friend  in  the 
course  of  a  shark  talk.  "  Croker,  a  general  of  the 
army,  and  myself  were  fishing  for  sharks  at  a  retired 
part  of  the  beach.  "We  had  no  luck.  It  was  a  bit 
rough,  and  we  couldn't  throw  our  hooks  and  bait  out 
beyond  the  rollers,  where  the  sharks  were  waiting — a 
whole  mass-meeting  of  them — apparently  as  zealous  as 
ourselves  for  the  success  of  that  fishing.  Following 
twenty  minutes  of  futile  effort  to  reach  the  sharks  with 


SHARKS!    SHARKS!  41 

our  bait,  Croker  gave  over  the  enterprise.  Perhaps  it 
was  ten  minutes  later,  I  was  still  engaged,  and  had 
forgotten  Croker,  when  to  my  terror  and  amazement  I 
beheld  him  swimming  about  among  the  sharks,  not  a 
few  of  which  were  eight  and  ten  feet  long.  Nor  was 
the  scare  local  with  myself;  the  general  was  as  white 
and  sick  as  I.  We  both  expected  nothing  less  than 
that  our  friend  was  to  become  shark-meat  with  each 
moment.  But  nothing  happened.  The  sharks,  be- 
yond getting  out  of  his  way  when  he  came  too  near, 
took  no  interest  in  him.  They  were  as  hungry  as  a 
band  of  politicians  at  that." 

Croker  listened  to  this  recital  with  a  worried  look. 
It  irks  him  to  find  himself  the  star  of  any  story.  I 
asked  concerning  his  strange  confidence  in  the  inno- 
cence of  sharks. 

"  It's  entirely  the  truth,"  he  replied;  "  a  shark  won't 
bite  anybody.  Of  course,  if  one  were  to  remain  per- 
fectly quiet  and  passive  in  the  water,  some  shark  might 
try  it.  Or  a  shark  might  snap  at  your  hand  trailed 
over  the  side  of  a  small  boat.  But  of  folk  swimming 
or  moving  about  they  are  afraid.  They  never  were 
known  to  attack  anyone,  man  or  boy,  under  such  con- 
ditions. On  the  other  hand,  they  scurry  out  of  the 
way.  No  one  need  fear  the  biggest  shark  that  ever 
flaunted  a  fluke;  one  will  be  in  no  danger  of  attack  from 
him." 


IV. 


ATHLETICS — SELF-DEFENSE. 

But  when  the  bully  with  assuming  pace, 

Cocks  his  broad  hat,  edged  round  with  tarnished  lace, 

Yield  not  the  way — defy  his  strutting  pride 

And  thrust  him  to  the  muddy  kennel's  side. 

— Gay. 

"WHAT  of  the  town  in  the  fifties?"  said  John 
Scannell,  thoughtfully  repeating  the  question.  "  From 
the  middle  fifties,  for  full  a  decade  and  a  half,  New 
York  City  lived  what  one  might  term  a  'strenuous 
life  * — that  is,  the  people  did.  The  old  volunteer  fire 
companies,  who  fought  one  another  as  often  as  they 
fought  fires,  had  their  effect.  Boxing  was  at  a 
premium.  To  be  a  man  of  peace  and  sobriety  was  no 
protection.  Thugs  and  roughs  abounded,  and  they 
were  the  more  ready  to  assail  one  whose  look  of  re- 
spectability and  quiet  inclined  them  to  a  thought  that 
he  was  'easy.'  A  well-dressed  stranger  couldn't  walk 
in  certain  regions  along  either  river  without  being 
made  to  fight  for  his  life. 

"  Election  day  was  the  busy  day  of  the  ruffian. 
Then  no  Australian  ballot  law  protected  the  poll.  The 
quiet  citizen  was  hustled,  and  bullied,  and  brow-beaten 
as  to  his  vote.  If  he  pleased  the  toughs  with  his 
ticket,  well  and  good.  He  could  vote;  the  thugs  would 
protect  him  through  the  ordeal.  If  he  held  contrary 
views  to  theirs,  frequently  to  save  his  bones  he  didn't 


TAMMANY  HALL. 


TEE  RUFFIAN'S  BUST  DAY.  43 

vote  at  all.  Election  day  was  a  day  of  riot;  folk  not 
capable  of  self-protection  were  safer  within  doors. 

"  But  a  change  came,  following  the  war.  A  counter- 
irritant  developed;  and  the  Bill  Pooles,  the  Yankee 
Sullivans,  and  the  Owney  Geoghegans  were  sensibly  di- 
minished. As  one  result  of  the  Civil  War,  and  during 
it,  a  great  many  pistols  were  made.  They  were  of 
every  size  and  sort,  from  the  eight-inch  navy  which 
swung  from  a  belt  to  the  twenty-two  caliber  vest-pocket 
gun  that  didn't  weigh  two  ounces.  And  a  long-roll 
of  thugs  suffered  pistol  elimination.  Everybody  was 
carrying  a  weapon.  The  rough  was  no  longer  sure 
of  his  victim.  He  might  select  some  harmless-looking 
consumptive  as  the  object  of  assault.  And  the  con- 
sumptive might  develop  into  a  masked  battery.  He 
might  bring  a  pistol  to  bear  on  his  enemy;  and  many  a 
tough  funeral  was  founded  that  way.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  the  ruffian  to  make  a  safe  match. 

"  Self-preservation  is  as  much  a  law  of  nature  among 
plug-uglies  as  among  purer,  better  folk;  and  there- 
fore it  was  that  in  the  face  of  pistol-perils  which 
he  couldn't  foresee,  and  against  which  his  quality  as  a 
rough-and-tumble  bruiser  gave  him  no  security,  the 
plug-ugly  was  modified,  and  brawl  and  disturbance  be- 
came exceptional  where  before  they  were  the  order  of 
the  day. 

"  In  this  hour,  which  is  the  quietest  and  of  the  least 
disorder  of  any  that  New  York  has  known  during  the 
half  century  of  which  I  have  personal  memories,  the 
4  dress-suit '  has  captured  the  town.  That  sounds  odd, 
but  it's  true.  The  ( dress-suit,'  or  evening  garb,  is  no 
longer  the  privilege  of  the  rich  alone.  It  has  become 
the  property  of  all.  Every  tug-man,  and  truck-driver, 


44  RICHARD   CROKER 

and  everyone  else,  are  proprietors  of  *  dress-suits/ 
Your  tug-man  lays  aside  his  overalls  at  the  close  of  the 
day,  and  if  '  hop '  or  '  function '  be  the  evening's  pro- 
gramme of  his  'set,'  you'll  find  him  present  thereat, 
arrayed  to  the  nines.  Full  evening  dress!  white  kids, 
cloak  overcoat,  and  crush  hat,  he  sports  the  full  regalia. 

"  And  it  follows,  as  the  day  the  night,  that  our  tug- 
man  must  live  up  to  his  costume.  He  must  be  polite, 
courteous,  a  gentleman  of  dignity.  And  he  must  not 
fight.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  believe  that  the 
clothes  make  the  man;  but  I  incline  to  a  theory  that 
they  have  a  deal  to  do  with  making  a  man  behave. 
There  is  a  morality  of  the  *  dress-suit.'  I  regard  even- 
ing dress  as  a  great  preserver  of  the  public  peace; 
more  so,  by  far,  than  the  police.  That's  the  now  con- 
dition of  affairs:  the  l dress-suit'  has  conquered  the 
town;  safety,  courtesy,  and  peace  are  the  profits  of  it." 

Kichard  Croker,  who  saw  his  young  manhood  during 
that  period  spoken  of  by  Scannell  as  being  an  era 
wherein  the  town  witnessed  its  greatest  fistic  activities, 
became  perfect  as  a  boxer.  There  was  no  youth  more 
moral  in  the  city.  He  drank  no  liquors,  he  visited  no 
saloons,  he  did  not  set  foot  in  a  brothel,  and  his  lan- 
guage was  without  taint  of  profanity  or  violence. 
These  were  characteristics  of  his  young  manhood; 
they  have  found  emphasis  with  every  day  he  has  lived. 
Richard  Croker  has  been,  and  is,  in  the  matter  of  per- 
sonal morals,  a  lesson. 

For  these  reasons  of  his  moralities,  in  a  day  when  a 
man's  hand  must  keep  his  head  or  his  rights  suffer  in- 
vasion and  defiance,  young  Richard  took  up  boxing  as 
a  purpose  serious  and  worth  while.  At  this  game  he 
had  towering  natural  advantages.  To  a  giant's  strength 


THE  BOXING  SCHOOL.  45 

and  an  iron  courage  he  added  the  activity  of  a  goat. 
Nor  was  it  long  when  his  supremacy  at  the  gymnasium 
was  admitted.  There  was  none  of  his  fellows  who 
might  contend  with  him. 

It  was  while  perfecting  himself  in  sparring  and  kin- 
dred exercises  that  something  chanced  which  made 
boxing  circles  vocal  with  the  name  of  Richard  Croker. 
The  instructor  in  the  gymnasium  affected  by  young 
Richard  was  one  Otengen.  This  latter  was  of  huge 
physical  powers,  famed  for  the  force  and  fury  of 
his  blows,  and,  saving  the  names  of  a  few  professional 
fighting  men  of  the  Yankee  Sullivan  order,  conceded 
to  be  unclassed  among  the  gladiators  of  the  town. 
Young  Richard  was  among  his  pupils;  and  under  his 
tutelage  sparred  himself  into  the  notice  of  those  who 
were  workers  or  visitors  at  that  gym.  It  befell  one  day 
when  an  unusual  audience  was  present  that  our  in- 
structor notified  young  Richard  that  he  was  to  box  with 
him;  that  he  must  do  his  best. 

"  This  is  to  be  earnest,  Richard,"  observed  Otengen 
as  he  tied  the  gloves  on  his  follower's  hands;  "  I  hear 
great  stories  about  you  from  the  others,  and  I'm  going 
to  try  you  out.  I  won't  spare  you,  so  do  all  you  know." 

Young  Richard  said  nothing.  He  accepted  the  ad- 
vice of  the  instructor,  however,  and  determined  to  "  do 
his  best."  It  was  supposed  by  some  who  witnessed  the 
bout  that  Otengen,  irritated  a  bit  by  the  growing  re- 
pute of  his  disciple,  deemed  it  wise  to  lower  the  latter's 
vanity.  It  was  Otengen's  duty  as  well  as  joy  to  do  this. 
Joy,  because  your  true  boxing  master,  working  hour 
after  hour  with  a  bevy  of  feather-blown  folk,  every  one 
of  whom  he  is  afraid  to  hurt,  feels  as  does  he  who  wears 
bonds.  Therefore  comes  it  that  his  heart  leaps  lamb- 


46  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

like  in  his  bosom  when,  getting  someone  before  him  for 
whose  bones  he  has  no  concern,  he  may  cast  repression 
to  the  winds  and  give  to  the  slaughter  instinct  within 
him  freest  head.  Otengen  arranged  to  reduce  young 
Eichard's  opinion  of  himself  with  sentiments  of  satis- 
faction. He  was  to  have  much  happiness.  He  would 
cut  the  comb  of  this  cockerel  in  a  friendly,  almost 
fatherly,  way.  It  would  tend  to  subdue  the  cockerel's 
conceit,  and  make  for  his  modesty  and  regeneration. 
Surely,  with  forty-five  pounds  the  better  of  the  weights, 
it  would  be  imbecile  to  suppose  that  he,  Otengen,  was 
to  run  a  risk! 

No  story  by  rounds  exists  of  this  battle.  If  that 
long-ago  gymnasium  had  been  the  lists  of  Ashby,  and  I 
were  Sir  Walter  Scott;  or  if  the  combat  whose  story 
pends  had  been  that  mailed  and  mighty  set-to  between 
Sir  John  Holland  and  Sir  Eeginald  de  Koye,  and  I  were 
a  Froissart,  there  might  be  managed  a  history  of  ex- 
cessive brightness  at  this  point.  But  alas!  for  myself, 
I  limp  from  a  dullness  of  imagination,  am  lame  with  a 
poverty  of  detail,  and  may  only  record  this  glove-tilt 
as  the  tale  is  given  me. 

Thus  trots  narrative:  The  parties  most  in  violent 
interest  faced  each  other;  their  guards  were  up  on 
principles  invented  by  the  venerated  Cribb.  Otengen, 
four  inches  the  taller,  stood  over  young  Richard  like 
a  tower.  The  two  moved  about  each  other  like  cats; 
their  hands  went  in  and  out,  "  fiddling  "  for  an  open- 
ing. Then  Otengen  leaped  in  to  his  labors.  It  was  all 
hurly-burly.  There  was  jab!  and  hook!  and  jolt!  and 
counter!  and  cross-counter!  biff!  bang!  smash!  For 
a  finish,  young  Richard's  head  and  shoulders  struck  the 
mat,  and  the  round — London  rules — was  at  an  end, 


LEADS  AND  COUNTERS.  47 

Our  knights  went  each  to  his  corner;  those  students 
of  fisticuffs  who  had  been  detailed  as  seconds  worked 
towel  and  sponge.  At  the  end  of  a  half  minute — a 
cruel  short  time,  as  he  who  boxes  finds — that  visitor 
who  prevailed  as  referee  called: 

"  Time! " 

And  again  the  combatants  stood  forth. 

There  was  a  mouse-hued  lump  over  young  Richard's 
temple  where  he  stopped  the  Otengen  blow  when  he 
went  down.  There  were  no  wagers  on  the  battle  be- 
tween master  and  follower;  and  if  there  had  been,  what 
with  Otengen's  size  and  hardy  reputation,  it  would 
have  been,  in  the  language  of  sport,  "  apples  to  ashes 
on  the  big  one." 

It  should  be  noted,  however,  that  young  Richard  in 
no  wise  indorsed  these  odds  in  his  heart.  There  is  an 
optimism  of  the  thoroughbred,  whether  man  or  horse 
or  dog, — an  inborn  confidence  in  a  good  time  coming 
when  the  cup  of  victory  will  be  full, — that  hedges  the 
soul  against  any  touch  of  failure.  'Such  folk  may  be 
slain;  they  cannot  be  defeated.  And  young  Richard 
was  thoroughbred. 

This  second  round  was  much  the  fashion  of  war- 
party  with  the  first.  Its  close  found  young  Richard 
again  on  his  back;  a  trifle  ensanguined  of  a  flush  hit  on 
the  nose,  otherwise  hearty  and  hopeful.  The  third 
round  was  twin  of  the  second;  and  its  last  chapter  the 
old  story  of,  "  Knock-down  for  Otengen." 

It  was  the  fourth  round  which  beheld  the  end,  and 
with  it  the  laurels  lost  of  Otengen.  The  latter,  full  of 
a  ruinous  gayety,  was  doing  the  leading;  his  future  held 
no  clouds  of  doubt.  Young  Richard  on  his  part  was  in 
no  whit  dismayed;  those  three  times  when  he  had  found 


48  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

the  floor  served  no  purpose  save  the  quick  arousal  of 
his  every  energy.  Young  Richard  was  improved  by 
them;  his  sparring  was  cleaner  and  his  blows  were 
swifter,  harder  than  at  first.  The  smashing  attack  of 
Otengen  had  fired  him;  his  steam  was  up.  This  fourth 
round  was  of  that  warm  and  vivid  nature  so  com- 
mendable in  the  others.  It  was  lead!  and  stop!  and 
counter!  and  no  one  running  away. 

Abruptly  came  the  close,  with  the  bang  and  sudden 
vim  of  some  wind-slammed  door.  Otengen  was  trying 
for  a  blow  which  should  put  the  roof  on  that  round. 
He  sprang  forward  and  shot  his  left  at  the  mouse-hued 
lump  which  nestled  above  young  Richard's  eyebrow. 
But  the  latter  wasn't  there.  Hand  and  foot  and  eye 
kept  time  like  a  chorus.  Young  Richard  stepped  to 
the  right;  the  Otengen  glove  whistled  like  a  bird  in 
harmless  passage  by  his  left  ear.  Coincident  therewith, 
young  Richard's  left  struck  Otengen  where  the  short 
ribs  end,  while  his  right  whipped  over  the  big  boxer's 
shoulder  and  reached  the  jaw  with  a  crash.  This  last 
blow  was  like  unto  the  kick  of  a  pony.  Otengen  said 
later  that  it  was  as  though  he'd  struck  against  the  pole 
of  a  dray.  The  muscles  of  foot  and  leg  and  back  and 
shoulder  and  arm  were  drawn  on  for  fullest  contribu- 
tion. Young  Richard  piled  the  whole  weight  and 
power  of  his  trained  one-hundred-and-forty-pound 
body  into  the  swing.  And  it  did  the  work. 

Otengen  went  down,  and  as  it  were  a  pole-axed  ox. 
His  adherents  bore  him  to  his  corner;  swamped  him 
with  sponges,  and  whipped  him  dry  with  towels.  It 
was  of  no  avail.  Otengen  slept  the  sleep  of  no  dreams 
for  full  ten  minutes;  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  his 
glories  had  faded  and  departed  away.  The  master  had 


THE  RUFFIAN'S  FEAR.  49 

been  mastered;  the  pupil  was  graduated  and  had  taken 
his  degree. 

This  battle  made  a  flutter;  none  the  less  for  that 
Otengen  had  been  smote  senseless  at  the  end.  In  that 
day  boxers  knew  of  the  "  knock-out,"  but  avoided  it. 
They  feared  that  death  might  follow.  The  sleep  of 
Otengen,  therefore,  was  a  feature  all  but  unique,  and 
gave  a  wing  to  gossip.  The  encounter  was  the  nine- 
day  talk  of  the  town;  young  Eichard  was  hailed  a 
prodigy  of  boxing  skill  and  strength.  He  was  but 
twenty  years  of  age  at  the  time,  and  there's  scant 
doubt  that  in  those  rough  days  which  followed,  when 
in  politics  he  fought  Tweed  and  O'Brien,  protecting 
the  ballot  box  from  bludgeon-wielding  thugs  and  driv- 
ing repeaters  from  the  polls,  he  enjoyed  a  safety 
which  was  direct  increase  of  his  triumph  over  Otengen. 
Many  have  been  the  roughs  and  under-roughs — 
with  orders  which  went  even  to  the  pitch  of  murder 
— who,  knowing  of  his  bout  with  Otengen,  have 
looked  into  the  even  eyes  of  Richard  Croker,  and 
then,  with  hearts  turned  to  water  and  courage  gone, 
skulked  away  without  spoken  word  or  upraised  hand. 
There  was  something  about  him,  whether  of  person- 
ality or  dread  repute,  and  probably  of  both,  which 
cowed  the  hardiest  ruffians.  They  seemed  to  smell  a 
limitless  trouble  off  him  as  one  smells  hidden  fire  in  a 
house;  and  with  a  sense  of  peril  on  them,  none  the  less 
profound  for  that  it  was  vague  and  not  defined,  they 
parted  before  him  like  water,  or  drew  away  like  sheep. 

Richard  Croker  surely  owed  much  in  security  in 
after  years  to  his  youthful  victory  over  Otengen. 
It  is  no  bad  thing  to  have  thus  a  strain  of  the  old 
Cromwell  Ironsides  in  one's  veins.  It  gives  to  one  a 


50  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

conquering  talent  that  is  of  enduring  value  in  this  life 
of  ours,  where  it  is  in  everyday  evidence  that  might 
makes  right,  and  none  is  allowed  to  win,  nor  even  to 
keep  his  own,  without  a  struggle.  Whatever  your 
white  philosopher  of  peace  may  show  as  to  what  it 
might  have  been,  existence  is,  in  truth  practical,  but  a 
wolf-war, — teeth  without  conscience,  hunger  without 
bounds, — and  those  are  to  come  best  oif  who,  with 
even  luck,  are  stanchest  of  arm  and  heart  and  brain. 

There  have  been,  and  doubtless  there  will  be,  those  to 
straggle  through  the  future  as  through  the  past  in  a 
ragged,  false  Indian-file  of  misstatement,  one  walk- 
ing in  the  footprints  of  another  just  ahead,  to  tell 
with  other  fictions  that  Eichard  Croker  fought  prize 
fights;  that  he  was  a  fist  champion  of  the  ring.  There 
is  in  such  relations  no  thought  of  truth.  Such 
slander  has  naught  to  stand  on  save  the  gymnasium 
combat  with  Otengen,  and  one  further  incident,  the 
story  whereof  may  as  well  be  set  forth  here. 

It  was  just  after  the  affair  of  Otengen.  The  work- 
men of  the  shops  where  young  Eichard  toiled,  together 
with  their  families,  resolved  on  a  holiday.  They  would 
hold  a  "  picnic '  in  Jones'  Wood.  This  latter,  being  a 
grovy,  tree-sown  spot,  charming  with  tall  woods  and 
cool,  thick  grass  beneath,  and,  moreover,  free  of  money- 
charge,  was  popular  among  poor  folk  who,  with  a  mind 
to  be  occasionally  sylvan,  could  not  pay  much  for  the 
privilege.  Three  or  four  hundred,  men  and  women, 
boys  and  girls,  gathered  in  Jones'  Wood  on  the  men- 
tioned picnic  occasion.  Young  Eichard,  already  a 
front  figure  among  those  of  his  age,  rejoiced  as  a  di- 
rector of  the  day.  There  was  a  deal  of  harmless  glee; 
good  feeling  rose  to  highest  mark. 


THE  BULL-NECK  STRANGER.  51 

Suddenly,  near  a  booth  where  tables  were  being  laid 
in  behalf  of  the  hungry,  screams  and  much  of  fluttering 
agitation  ensued.  Young  Richard  was  in  mid-tree, 
fastening  the  ropes  of  a  swing.  He  glanced  down  at 
the  tumult.  His  eye  fell  on  a  burly  and  unpleasant 
stranger,  remarkable  for  broad  shoulders  and  a  bull- 
neck.  The  stranger  had  just  enough  of  war-water  to 
make  him  careless;  and,  with  as  much  indifference  to 
the  proprieties  as  to  property  rights,  was  assailing  the 
regale.  This  it  was  which  brewed  the  disorder.  The 
ladies  made  shrill  and  scolding  protest.  Small  marvel! 
There's  no  woman  who  will  burn  and  bend  over  pies 
and  cakes,  and  then  look  with  patience  on  their  un- 
licensed bolting  by  the  first  hungry  vandal  who  may 
stroll  that  way. 

Young  Richard  came  down  the  swing-rope,  hand  over 
hand  and  lightly  as  a  cat.  The  caitiff  out-lier  at  his  un- 
bidden feast  was  not  there  by  any  right.  He  was  not 
of  that  picnic  party,  and  entitled  neither  to  art  nor 
part  nor  lot  in  the  banqueting  revels  of  that  day. 
Moreover,  he  was  insulting  and  coarsely  abusive.  But 
fell  retribution  was  abroad.  Young  Richard  de- 
scended upon  him  like  a  landslide.  In  the  words  of 
one  who  beheld  the  whirl  of  events,  the  invading  rough 
"didn't  last  as  long  as  a  drink  of  whisky."  Bruised 
and  bleeding,  he  was  cast,  as  it  were,  into  outer  dark- 
ness— flung  ever  the  fence.  He  wended,  the  most 
thoroughly  trounced  loafer  who  saw  the  light  that 
day. 

This  casting  forth  of  the  pie-Goth  had  its  sequel. 
The  latter  was  a  dim  figure  of  prize  fighter,  and  felt 
much  subsequent  chagrin  at  the  disaster  which  over- 
took him  in  Jones'  Wood  that  picnic  day.  He  mourned 


52  RICHARD  CROKER. 

for  that  it  hurt  his  fistic  standing.  His  friends  waited 
upon  young  Richard. 

"  He  was  drunk  when  you  did  him,"  they  said.  "  If 
he'd  been  sober  you  would  have  been  beaten  to  rags. 
As  it  is,  you've  injured  his  reputation.  If  you're  a  fair 
man  you'll  meet  him  and  give  him  a  chance  to  recover 
his  position,  which  was  high  and  proud  among  fighting 
men  until  his  drunkenness  and  desire  for  pies  floor- 
managed  his  overthrow  at  your  hands." 

This  casuistry  was  received  sourly  enough  by  young 
Richard.  He  saw  no  justice  in  being  crowded  to  battle 
with  the  prize  fighter  by  virtue  of  what  had  transpired. 
He  hadn't  made  the  latter  drunk;  he  hadn't  trolled  him 
into  that  pie-vandalage  which  was  the  immediate  cause 
of  his  troubles.  The  drunken  fighter  may  have  lost 
place  in  those  social  circles  which  he  honored,  but  the 
story  gave  no  reason  why  young  Richard  should  favor 
him  with  a  meeting. 

Debate  became  trenchant.  The  committee  of  the 
injured  warrior's  friends  made  slurring  intimation  that 
the  bug  under  the  chip  of  young  Richard's  hesitation 
was  fear.  This  proved  too  much.  Twenty  is  not  the 
year  of  coolness;  no  youth  of  that  age  may  with  resig- 
nation find  his  courage  impugned.  Young  Richard 
granted  the  commission's  claim.  The  wronged  fighter, 
with  every  aid  that  sobriety  might  bring  him,  should 
have  an  opportunity  to  restore  his  torn  and  damaged 
honors.  The  hour  and  the  day  found  names,  and 
Jones'  Wood — the  theater  of  his  ill-luck — was  pitched 
on  as  a  place  where  the  complaining  pugilist  should  be 
met  and  righted. 

Young  Richard  kept  to  the  arrangement.  On  the 
prick  of  hour  set  he  was  at  Jones'  Wood,  awaiting  what 


THE  CLOSED  INCIDENT.  53 

fate  his  adversary  might  construct  for  him.  'But  the 
other  remained  away.  Whether  he  was  ill,  or  seized 
of  a  fear,  or  held  young  Richard  as  too  small  a  business, 
was  neither  discussed  nor  determined.  It  was  enough 
that  he  didn't  come;  and,  as  saith  diplomacy,  "  it  is 
thus  that  the  incident  was  closed." 


V. 


THE    PRIZE    FIGHTEH. 

Why,  then,  we  will  have  bellowing  of  beeves  ; 
Broaching  of  barrels,  brandishing  of  spigots. 

— Old  Play. 

OUE  last  chapter  was  out  of  breath  with  violence,  and 
I  am  glad  it's  done.  Not  because  I  oppose  events  of 
sport;  I  but  weary  of  their  recital.  However,  as  a 
philosopher  who  laughs,  and  who  wag  born  to  a  scorn 
of  hypocrisy,  whether  it  wear  surplice  or  come  with 
meaner  claim,  I  have  been  made  often  to  smile  at  that 
snobbery  which  evinces  itself  by  those  varying  fashions 
in  which  fist-sins,  now  and  then  visited  by  one  gentle- 
man against  another,  are  decided  upon.  There  is 
no  complexity  in  which  the  question,  "  Whose  ox 
is  gored?  "  or  rather,  "  Whose  ox  does  the  goring?  " 
is  of  such  moment  as  in  this  matter  of  a  fracas.  The 
after-status  of  the  rioter  will  ever  depend,  not  on  what 
he  does,  but  on  where  he  lives,  and  what  rung  of  the 
ladder  of  life,  socially  and  financially, — the  terms  are 
each  the  other's  shadow, — he  rests  his  foot. 

Our  scene  is  a  restaurant;  one  of  those  brilliant 
rooms,  all  blare  of  orchestra  and  glare  of  lights,  where 
the  half-world  finds  grounds  of  parade.  Some  male  at- 
tacks another;  tables  crash,  women  scream,  waiters 
scurry  in  the  cause  of  peace.  What  is  the  decision? 
If  the  male  disguised  in  liquor  who  has  half  murdered 
his  fellow  male,  similarly  en  masque,  be  of  our  "  aris- 
tocracy," and  with  a  Fifth  Avenue  habitat,  he  is  a  "  lad 

54 


THE  BOXING-GOOD.  55 

of  spirit ";  what  we  have  witnessed  is  that  exuberance 
common  of  his  years.  If  on  the  other  and  seamy  hand 
our  warrior  should  be  one  to  earn  a  livelihood  by  day's 
labor  of  his  hands,  and  whose  address  is  Avenue  A,  he 
is  a  "  ruffian "  whose  brawling  is  the  bud  of  that 
native  degeneracy  and  crime-instinct  which  is  at  last  to 
grant  him  Sing  Sing,  and  the  "  Chair."  Still,  let  it  go; 
such  debate  has  nothing  of  deep-sea  consequence,  and 
is  curious,  only,  as  offering  some  hint  of  that  ex- 
cellent justice  of  classifications  wherewith  we  transact 
life. 

As  stated  above,  I  rejoice  that  we  be  through  with 
those  melees  wherewith  the  last  chapter  is  so  deeply 
fraught.  And  at  that  I  would  not  be  understood  as 
one  who  gives  his  voice  against  the  prize  fighter.  We 
want  a  gladiatorial  class.  It  reflects  itself  in  the  swell- 
ing physical  stamina  and  courage  of  a  people.  Prize 
fighters  per  se  are  of  a  doubtful  use;  but  in  the 
second  remove  they  work  steadily  for  good.  The  gen- 
eral youth  of  the  land  enf  ringe  those  ropes  wherein  our 
prize  fighter  toilfully  pounds  his  adversary,  who  as  toil- 
fully  responds.  The  general  youth  become  thrilled 
thereby,  and  emulous.  This  serves  to  make  popular 
the  art  of  boxing,  and  every  boy  would  shine  thereat. 
And,  as  preliminary,  he  will  seek  for  a  clean  health  and 
that  muscle-strength  without  which  comes  no  fist 
success. 

In  these  directions  and  on  such  terms  your  prize 
fighter  is  a  boon.  He  affects  a  race  and  folk  are  made 
better  by  him  just  as  every  horse  has  had  improvement, 
the  result  of  a  century  of  breeding  thoroughbreds  for 
racing.  Behold  the  locomotive  engine  in  the  day  of  its 
strength.  The  fire-box  is  its  stomach,  the  boiler  is  its 


56  RICHARD  CROKER. 

lungs.  Its  brains  are  that  throttle-gripping  engine- 
driver  one  notes  peering  from  the  cab.  Wanting  that 
stomach  of  furnace,  and  those  steam-chest  lungs,  how- 
ever, your  simple  engineer,  throttle  he  never  so  wisely, 
would  not  go  far  to  perform  those  winged  miracles  of 
transportation  to  make  up  the  daily  time-card  of  com- 
merce. And  thus  it  is  with  man.  Therefore  give  to 
the  poor  gladiator  place  in  your  patience — give  him  the 
kind  countenance  of  your  good  opinion. 

It  is  not  well  to  change  one's  public  into  sheep. 
With  wars  in  every  region,  the  lesson  is  indelible  that 
force — physical  force — is  still  the  last  grand  invoca- 
tion which  summons  Truth  and  Eight.  While  this 
confronts  one,  condemn  not  these  fist-philosophers  who 
do  most  of  their  small  thinking  with  the  brain  which 
lies  back  of  the  ears.  The  race  should  have  these 
promontories  of  the  physical  to  hold  a  course  by  just 
as  it  should  those  other  headlands  of  a  best  morality 
and  a  highest  thought  of  which  we  sing  so  much  in 
praise. 

It  was  long  ago  determined  to  make  of  this  volume 
an  unchecked  thought-ramble  into  any  worth-while 
.field.  On  this  subject  of  the  prize  fighter,  and  to  the 
end  that  one  gain  a  best  understanding  of  these  gentry 
of  the  ring,  it  would  be  good  to  converse  with  that  once 
glove-master,  John  Lawrence  Sullivan.  Or  it  may  do 
as  well,  perchance,  and  serve  besides  to  keep  those  more 
timid  aloof  from  rugged  company,  if  I  repeat  a 
colloquy  which  fell  out  between  this  ring  fighter  and 
myself  about  a  duo  of  years  ago.  I  will  put  down 
all  he  said,  for  while  but  a  part  is  in  defense  of  the 
fighting  clan,  the  relation  of  the  rest  may  serve  to  dis- 
close some  personal  virtues  of  heart  and  head,  justice 


DRINK  AND  GENIUS.  57 

and  a  spirit  of  intelligence;  and  so  teach  ones  ignorant 
on  the  point  that  even  the  despised  fighting  man  may 
be  capable  of  a  right  feeling  and  a  right  thinking  which 
would  not  stain  the  vestments  of  a  bishop. 

It  was  in  the  "  Inferno,"  a  drinking  place,  where  I 
found  our  Sullivan.  He  was  agreeably  at  a  table  with 
a  cup  of  strong  waters;  taking,  indeed,  "  his  ease  in  his 
inn,"  as  the  big-girdled  knight  would  say. 

It  should  not  discourage  the  reader,  however 
bleached  to  rarity  his  taste  may  be,  to  learn  of  Sulli- 
van's discovery  in  a  taproom.  The  mighty  seem  never 
far  from  drink,  and  our  ring  monarch  had  glittering 
precedent  for  his  surroundings.  Had  one  sought 
Chaucer  in  his  day,  doubtless  one  would  have  found 
him  at  the  "  Tabard,"  marshaling  his  pilgrims  for 
Canterbury.  Or  coming  down  the  years,  was  there  a 
word  to  say  to  that  Will  of  Stratford,  who  is  known  of 
this  day  by  his  surname  of  Shakspere,  where  should  the 
sagacious  have  searched?  Why,  forsooth!  at  the 
"  Mermaid."  There  with  pipe  and  bowl  he  would  have 
been  had  in  talk  with  Walter  Raleigh;  or  belike  with 
Fletcher  and  Wotten  and  Donne  and  those  others  who, 
with  himself,  were  founders  of  that  first  literary  club 
of  England  whereof  Raleigh  himself  was  the  corner 
stone;  and  which  was  two  centuries  after  to  become 
the  model  of  that  Gerrard  Street  coterie  with  Johnson 
as  its  hub,  and  about  whom,  like  radiating  spokes,  were 
Reynolds,  Langton,  Burke,  Goldsmith,  and  Topham 
Beauclerc.  If  one  were  seeking  Ben  Jonson,  that 
dramatist  and  duelist  would  have  been  come  upon  soak- 
ing himself  with  sack  at  the  "  Devil,"  with  Inigo  Jones, 
his  workmate  of  the  masques  and  royal  revels,  the  com- 
panion of  his  glass.  Or  was  it  on  gossip  Pepys  one 


58  RICHARD  CROKER. 

would  call?  And  if  he  were  not  busy  falsifying  his  ac- 
counts at  the  Admiralty,  it  is  a  shrewd  chance  one 
would  meet  with  him  at  the  "  Cock";  or  if  not  there, 
then  stealing  a  suspicious  visit  with  Mistress  Knepp  of 
the  theater  to  the  "  Dog  and  Duck  "  at  Finsbury.  In  a 
later  year  he  who  sought  Defoe  would  have  encountered 
him  at  "  Garroway's  ";  while  Dry  den,  if  one  would 
have  had  speech  of  him,  one  might  have — as  did 
Pope  on  that  boyish  occasion  when  he  was  first 
to  meet  that  genius  whom  he  afterwards  was  to 
imitate— "  earthed  "  at  "Will's."  It  was  there 
the  poet  would  be  met  withal,  in  that  identical  room 
of  "  Will's  "  from  which  Steele  was  soon  to  date  his 
"  Tatlers  "  and  "  Spectators  ";  and  where,  of  Steele's 
fecund  fancy,  on  the  2d  of  March,  1711,  good  Sir  Koger 
De  Coverley  was  to  have  birth — that  quaint,  benevolent 
old  knight  of  Worcestershire,  whom  Addison  was  to 
adopt  from  Steele  and  love  for  his  own.  Pope  in  his 
day,  with  the  unstability  common  of  the  born  cripple, 
was  in  a  dozen  inn  parlors  during  the  course  of  the  sun; 
one  moment  at  "  Button's  "  with  Addison,  the  next  at 
"  White's  "  with  Gay.  Or  one  might  hear  of  Pope  at 
the  "  Cocoa  Tree,"  where  he'd  gone  whispering  the 
Tories  drinking,  what  was  current  as  gossip  among 
Buckhurst  and  Arbuthnot  and  Montagu  and  Garth 
and  Swift  and  their  stout  fellow-Whigs  who  found 
drink  and  discussion  at  the  "  Kit  Kat."  It  was  at  the 
"  Turk's  Head  "  where  Johnson  mixed  punch  for  Gold- 
smith; where  he  bullied  Garrick;  and  where  he  toadied 
to  Topham  Beauclerc  because  of  the  latter's  great 
grandsire  Charles  the  Second,  who,  conjointly  with  Nell 
Gwynne,  had  furnished  his  brief  ancestry  its  start.  It 
was  twenty-five  years  nearer  us  when  one  might  have 


THE  FIGHTER'S  WISDOM.  59 

glimpsed  the  coarse,  meaty  features  of  Brummell  as  the 
beau  gazed  from  the  windows  of  "  Brooks',''  or  found 
Fox  losing  thousands  at  "  Watier's."  In  that  hour, 
too,  one  would  have  met  Nelson  at  "  Fladong's  " — if 
Lady  Hamilton  had  not  detained  him;  Wellington  at 
"  Slaughter's  ";  while  Coleridge,  before  those  kindred 
vices  of  opium  and  Unitarianism  had  shaken  him,  was 
drinking  thinly  with  Lamb  at  the  "  Salutation  and 
Cat."  Even  the  Cloth  had  its  tap;  and  it  was  at  "  Ib- 
betson's  "  that  our  worthy  archbishop,  with  a  glass  of 
Hollands  before  him,  refused  to  sign  a  parliament  peti- 
tion asking  laws  meant  to  muzzle  the  Briton  in  his  gin- 
bibbing,  and  turned  it  aside  with  the  epigram,  "  I'd 
sooner  see  Englishmen  free  than  sober."  Sullivan 
drinking  in  the  "  Inferno  "  had  every  celebrity  of  past 
time  as  his  indorser. 

But  to  our  conversation:  Sullivan  will  from  time  to 
time  repeat  the  questions  offered;  wherefore  there's  no 
call  to  interfere  with  aught  of  formal  inquisitiveness. 
Also  we'll  let  Sullivan  talk  in  his  dialect  of  Cherry 
Hill.  To  re-phrase  him  into  English  would  be  corrup- 
tion and  a  wrong. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  dramy?  "  repeated  Sul- 
livan, in  a  voice  foggy  with  the  much  steam  of  sultry 
old  encounters;  "well,  I'll  put  you  onto  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  the  theaters.  They  need  about  two-foot  of 
snow,  see!  Then  these  mugs  couldn't  go  bicycling  with 
their  sweethearts,  an'  they'd  turn  into  the  show  in- 
stead. Is  the  pop'lar  taste  in  theatricals  changin'? 
String  all  the  stuff  you  like  on  it  that  it's  changin'. 
Shakspere  right  now  aint  a  deuce  in  a  bum  deck.  He 
was  all  right  in  his  time,  Shakspere  was;  but  he's  a  has- 
been.  A  mug  don't  go  to  a  theater  any  more  to  learn 


60  RICHARD   CROKER. 

things;  he  goes  to  be  entertained.  That's  where  Shak- 
spere  gets  the  gate,  see! 

"  What  do  I  think  of  the  Spanish  War?  Say!  our 
victory  at  Santiago  don't  throw  no  wonder  into  me. 
Those  Dagoes  weren't  in  it  with  us.  I  don't  count 
guns  an'  battleships;  at  any  rate  they  aint  the  whole 
box  of  tricks.  It's  the  guy  behind  the  gun  that  does 
it;  an'  that's  where  we  can  put  out  the  best  nation  on 
the  list.  America's  not  only  got  the  ships,  she's  got 
the  men;  we've  got  the  sand  and  we've  got  the 
punch.  They  can't  beat  us;  never  in  a  thousand 
years. 

"  What  do  I  think  of  the  English?  Not  to  give  you 
a  short  answer,  I  aint  got  no  use  for  an  Englishman. 
They  make  me  tired,  the  English  do,  with  the  lugs  they 
put  on.  I  know  'em  all  right,  all  right;  I've  been  over 
there,  an'  know  'em  like  a  card-sharp  does  an  ace. 
They're  too  chesty,  see!  too  much  stuck  on  themselves. 
Buy  the  English  at  their  figure,  an'  they'd  break  you. 
But  they  don't  make  good.  Sure!  they  treated  me 
0.  K.,  at  that. 

"  Do  I  meet  the  Prince  [he's  been  elevated  to  a  King- 
ship since]  when  I'm  in  England?  Dozens  of  times. 
I'd  been  over  there  a  couple  of  months  doin'  my  stunts 
at  the  theater,  when  one  of  his  '  Eoyal  Highness's' 
chasers  comes  sprintin'  up  to  me,  an'  he  says,  '  John, 
the  Prince  wants  to  see  you  spar.'  I  looks  at  this  guy 
a  minute,  an'  says,  '  Well,  tell  the  sucker  to  pay  his 
dough  at  the  door  an'  look  on.  There's  no  strings  on 
him;  an'  I  aint  sparrin'  in  secret.  Any  mug,  if  he's  a 
prince  or  a  costermonger,  can  see  me  box  if  he's  got  the 
price.'  But  later,  the  manager  gives  me  the  hunch  it's 
a  dead  good  scheme  to  go  an'  put  up  my  hands  for  his 


THE  PRINCE  WAS  ALL  RIGHT.  61 

'  Eoyal  Highness '  in  private.  I'm  a  little  sore  about 
it,  for  I  don't  see  where  a  prince  comes  in  any  more, 
than  any  other  duck;  but  I  don't  make  much  of  a  kick, 
an'  tells  them  to  lay  out  their  game,  an  I'll  be  there 
with  my  sparring  partner  to  do  the  rest.  An'  of  course 
we  pull  off  the  e-vent. 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  the  Prince?  Well,  I'll  tell 
you."  At  this  point  Sullivan  was  overswept  with  an  air 
of  deprecation,  and  spake  as  one  who  apologizes  for 
confessed  and  obvious  weakness.  "  I'll  tell  you  about 
the  Prince.  Of  course  he's  an  Englishman,  an'  a 
prince  at  that;  but  between  you  an'  me,  he's  a  pretty 
decent  kind  of  a  dub.  And  if  he  lives,  he'll  be  a 
hot  monarch.  After  I'd  soaked  Lannon  for  eight 
rounds,  an'  was  pulling'  off  my  gloves, — reg'lar  pillows 
they  were, — the  Prince  comes  over  an'  shakes  me  by  the 
mit,  see!  An'  he  does  it  like  a  square  man.  It  caught 
me  all  right;  a  square  man  goes  as  far  as  he  likes  with 
me,  every  time. 

"  How  do  I  get  sore  on  Mayor  Quincy  of  Boston  a 
year  ago,  when  they  talks  of  me  jumpin'  out  for  Mayor? 
Well,  there's  a  blow-out  in  Fanyul  Hall  on  account  of 
this  young  fellow  Ten  Eyck,  the  oarsman^  who's  just 
come  back  from  doin'  up  the  English,  see!  Well,  I'm 
there  on  the  stage  with  the  rest  of  the  push,  an'  Quincy 
is  presidin'.  Every  guy  goes  up  an'  shakes  Quincy's 
mit,  an'  I'm  farmer  enough  to  get  in.  I  go  ag'inst 
Quincy  an'  extends  me  duke.  He  sees  an  openin'  to 
make  a  little  reputation  off  me,  an'  gives  me  the  cold 
turn-down.  Eefuses  to  shake  hands  with  me;  me  bein' 
a  prize  fighter.  It  don't  worry  me  none.  I  can  re- 
member a  time  when  a  Mayor  of  Boston — an'  a  better 
man  than  any  Quincy  that  ever  b«ozed  ice  water — 


62  RICHARD  CROKER. 

stands  on  that  very  stage  an'  presents  me  a  champion's 
belt,  while  the  gang  howls.  Quincy's  bluff  don't  bother 
me  a  bit.  I  sits  there  an'  hears  the  geezer  make  a 
speech  a  bit  later;  an'  on  the  level!  I'm  sorry  for  the 
sucker.  I'm  sorry  for  Boston  havin'  such  a'  dead  one 
for  its  mayor.  As  I  listens  to  the  duck,  I  couldn't  help 
thinkin',  '  Well,  if  I  was  as  big  a  duffer  with  my  hands 
as  you  are  with  your  head,  you'd  never  turn  me  down 
for  bein'  a  prize  fighter.' 

"  Am  I  a  Democrat?  Nit,  I  aint  no  thin';  I  vote  for 
the  man,  see!  If  he's  a  good  man,  he  goes  with  me. 
I  was  stuck  on  that  young  fellow  Bryan,  though;  he 
made  a  dead  game  battle.  I  think  if  he'd  side-stepped 
Silver  an'  gone  in  an'  soaked  it  to  the  Trusts,  he'd  have 
landed  the  trick  at  that. 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  about  politics.  Folks 
better  take  a  tumble  to  their  game,  or  they'll  get  it 
where  the  baby  wore  the  beads.  Did  you  see  a  while 
back  about  the  deputy  sheriffs  in  the  Pennsylvania 
coal  mines,  croakin'  those  strikin'  miners  who  was 
marchin  along  the  road?  Did  you  catch  onto  where 
the  judge  lets  the  killers  go  with  six  thousand  dollar 
bonds?  Say!  that  won't  do.  If  it  had  been  the  miners 
croakin'  the  mine-owners,  would  the  judge  have  took 
bail?  Not  on  your  life!  The  poor  suckers  would  have 
swung  for  it.  That's  the  sort  of  racket  that's  goin'  to 
send  things  keel-up  in  this  country  some  day.  You 
won't  see  it,  an'  I  won't  see  it;  but  the  time  '11  come 
when  it  '11  be  a  dead  case  of  '  Katie,  bar  the  door,'  an' 
there'll  be  somethin'  doin'  that  '11  scare  the  hair  off  the 
top  of  the  head  of  every  lobster  that's  got  a  million 
dollars. 

"  Prize  fightin'?    If  it's  pulled  off  on  the  square  it's 


SULLIVAN'S  GOOD  EXAMPLE.  63 

a  good  thing.  But  there's  a  bunch  of  crooks  and 
double-crossers  who've  got  hold  of  the  game  an'  queered 
it.  No,  I  think  a  prize  fighter  aint  so  bad.  It  takes 
all  sorts  to  make  a  world.  "We  can't  all  be  priests  an* 
preachers  an'  make  a  livin'  scoldin'  the  devil.  Priests 
an'  preachers  are  all  right,  an'  I  would  be  the  first  to 
call  down  a  duck  who  made  a  crack  the  other  way. 
But  say!  they  aint  got  all  the  good  to  themselves.  I've 
cut  up  rough  at  times,  an'  done  a  lot  of  things  I  wish 
I'd  missed;  but  I've  done  plenty  of  good.  I'll  bet  my 
life  there's  thousands  of  strong,  husky  young  fellows 
who  by  seein'  me  fight  got  stuck  on  boxing;  an'  they 
quit  bottles  an'  all-night  sprees  an'  the  rest  of  the 
funny  business  so  they  could  hold  up  their  hands  like 
winners.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  seein'  me,  they  wouldn't 
have  half  the  health  they've  got.  There  would  have 
been  a  bunch  of  them  in  Greenwood  or  Bloomingdale, 
too.  No,  I  aint  tryin'  to  cop  a  sneak  on  any  particular 
credit  for  this;  I  simply  say  that  there's  a  kind  of  good 
example  that  prize  fighters  set  that  a  preacher  or  a  mer- 
chant or  a  lawyer  or  a  banker  aint  framed  up  to  offer, 
see! " 

At  this  juncture  a  forlorn-appearing  mortal,  timidly 
obsequious,  sidled  up. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sullivan! "  said  the  abject 
one  in  tones  of  flattery. 

"  G'wan! "  commanded  Sullivan,  harsh  with  sus- 
picion. "  You  don't  know  me.  You're  stallin'  for  a 
drink." 

"  You  would  remember  me,"  said  the  other  with  a 
cringe,  "  only  you've  forgot.  I  was  standin'  right  be 
the  ropes  when  you  bested  Paddy  Ryan." 

"  Poor  Paddy!  "  observed  Sullivan,  with  hoarse  sym- 


64  RICHARD  CROKER. 

pathy;  "he  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  Paddy  was;  as 
good  as  ever  was  made.  But  he  got  the  wrong  steer 
when  he  come  into  the  prize  ring.  He  was  no  more  a 
prize  fighter  than  I  am  a  milliner.  I  punched  him  out 
in  the  ninth.  Here,  bar-boy,  give  this  gazabo,"  mean- 
ing the  abject  one,  "  a  big  drink  an'  a  good  cigar. 
There/'  Sullivan  continued  to  the  beneficiary,  follow- 
ing the  refreshment,  "now  don't  give  me  any  more 
guff.  You've  got  a  drink  an'  a  smoke;  that's  what  you 
wanted.  So  screw  out  now  an'  give  me  a  rest. 

"  It's  a  dead  wonder,"  observed  the  huge  ex- 
champion,  as  the  abject  one  withdrew,  visibly  bright- 
ened by  the  drink;  "  it's  a  wonder  he  didn't  strike  me 
for  '  twenty '  to  help  put  a  tombstone  over  Jack  Demp- 
sey.  I'll  gamble  that  I've  coughed  up  five  thousand 
dollars  in  all — of  course  I'm  lushin'  at  the  time — to  a 
lot  of  bunks  who  gives  me  a  song  an'  dance  about  a 
tombstone  for  Dempsey.  I'd  dig  for  a  '  twenty '  or  a 
'  fifty '  every  time  one  of  those  Hungry  Joes  comes  near 
me.  Take  me  when  I'm  tankin'  up,  an'  I'm  that  easy 
a  baby  could  sell  me  a  gold  brick." 

It  was  now  that  the  sporting  writer  of  a  local 
paper  appeared.  He  asked  Sullivan's  opinion  as  to  the 
probable  winner  of  a  combat  between  two  welter 
weights  who  were  to  battle  the  next  night. 

"  You  want  to  know  who  I  pick  to  win,  eh?  "  growled 
Sullivan;  "  well,  I  don't  pick,  see!  If  there's  one  thing 
that  makes  a  game  young  fellow  who's  matched  to  fight, 
an'  is  out  to  put  up  the  scrap  of  his  life,  dead  sore,  it's 
to  have  a  lot  of  wise  mugs  settin'  round  ( prophesyin' ' 
that  he's  goin'  to  lose,  an'  is  up  ag'inst  it.  I  aint  in 
that  business.  All  I've  got  to  say  to  these  young  men 
is  to  go  in  an'  do  their  best.  They  should  remember 


THE  NORSE  RACE.  65 

that,  while  pain  soon  passes  away,  defeat  never  does; 
an'  fight  as  long  as  they  can  see  or  stand. 

"  You're  goin',  are  you?  "  concluded  Sullivan,  turn- 
ing to  me.  "  Come  'round  an'  let  me  get  my  lamps  on 
you  often.  If  you're  goin'  to  print  what  I've  said,  you 
can  put  it  in  with  my  compliments  that  I  think  an 
honest  prize  fighter  is  a  better  man  than  a  dishonest 
banker.  It's  not  a  guy's  trade,  but  what  he  is,  that 
makes  him  a  good  or  a  bad  proposition." 

There  you  have  been  face  to  face  with  the  fighting 
man.  Doffing  prejudice,  it  will  not  tax  a  discernment 
which  I  know  to  be  yours,  to  discover  in  his  slang- 
garnished  utterances  a  list  of  virtues  which  the  world  is 
taught  to  applaud.  Look  closely;  one  will  find  therein 
expressed  a  courage,  a  patriotism,  a  vanity  of  country, 
a  charity,  a  loyalty  to  friends,  an  admiration  for  a  foe, 
a  memory  of  the  dead,  a  care  for  another's  sensibilities, 
some  shreds  of  a  fair  philosophy,  dramatic  and  other- 
wise; and  lastly,  that  stubborn  personal  independence 
not  to  be  impressed  by  a  prince  born  in  the  purple, 
which  many  an  American  with  more  pretense  of  re- 
spectability than  ever  a  poor  prize  fighter  might  make, 
would  save  his  self-respect  if,  during  the  progress  of 
some  London  invasion,  he  were  to  emulate  and  adopt. 

To  you  who,  reading  this,  are  ruffled  of  a  spirit  to  be 
put  thus  talk  to  talk  with  a  drinking  gladiator,  I  pro- 
fess an  exhortation  to  remember  that  race  from  which 
you  come,  and  be  appeased.  Back-track  your  people 
to  the  spring-head  of  their  emanation.  They  are  to  be 
known  through  every  whirl  of  history  by  their  blue- 
gray  eyes  and  tawny  hair.  It  is  the  robber  race;  the 
wolf  race.  It  drifts  westward  on  its  lines  of  latitude; 
drifts  ever  westward,  as  if  the  world  in  its  rolling  to 


66  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  east  offers  that  impulse  which  gives  it  motion  and 
direction.  It  is  the  race  of  pillage;  the  race  which 
shoved  ocean-ward  in  its  long  sea-serpents  on  viking 
cruise,  and  whose  axes  in  the  name  of  loot  have  bat- 
tered even  at  the  gates  of  Paris  long  ago.  Its  cry  of 
war,  hoarse  with  courage,  the  loud  Ahoy!  now  dwindled 
to  be  the  hailing  cry  of  sailor-folk,  was  through  cen- 
turies the  courier  of  conquest.  It  is  the  race  of  liberty; 
and  from  it  we  take  our  elections  and  our  legislatures, 
which  find  their  gagless  patterns  in  the  Things  and 
Witenagemotes  of  Norway.  It  is  the  race  of  justice; 
and  had  its  system  of  jury,  and  trial  by  a  man's  own 
peers,  a  thousand  years  e'er  Eunnymede  was  heard  of 
and  Magna  Charta  gave  those  safeguards  guarantee. 

It  is  the  brave  and  quenchless  race;  the  race  of  that 
chief  who  said:  "  If  I'm  opposed  by  Odin,  I  will  strive 
with  Odin;  if  Thor  confronts  me,  I  will  fight  with  Thor. 
I  have  no  fear  save  the  fear  of  the  cow's  death — the 
bed-death — the  death  in  peace  and  straw.  I've  no  hope 
but  to  die  the  man's  death,  girt  with  the  joys  of  battle; 
and  where  shields  are  breaking,  and  axes  are  crashing, 
and  swords  are  smiting  in  the  blessed  front  of  war. 
Thus  shall  my  spirit  win  Valhalla,  and  feast  at  the 
board  and  drink  of  the  cup  of  those  heroes  who  have 
gone  before." 

Skalds  were  its  singers,  and  its  sagas  told  the 
glory  of  this  race.  It  is  a  stern  race,  and  in  its  wars 
staked  blood  and  life  against  those  riches  of  its  adversa- 
ries for  which  it  fought.  It  could  conquer  or  it  could 
die,  and  the  iron  ethics  of  its  war-game  taught  that 
losers  lose  all.  Had  this  race  been  with  Brennus  when 
the  Romans  complained  of  his  overheavy  weights  while 
telling  down  their  yellow  ransom;  had  it  borne  witness 


THE  REARWARD  LOOK,  67 

as  the  conqueror  in  hard  retort,  unbuckling  his  belt, 
cast  sword  and  all  upon  the  scales  in  cruel  addition  to 
the  price  already  made,  crying,  "  Woe  to  the  van- 
quished! "  it  would  have  approved  that  relentless 
proverb,  and  indorsed  this  jurisprudence  of  the  strong 
hand,  with  a  happy  clangor  of  its  shields. 

That,  reader,  is  your  race  as  it  stands  in  the  twilights 
of  furthest  history;  that  is  your  race  to-day.  So  shall 
one  learn  who  digs  beneath  the  vain  veneer  which  over- 
spreads us  of  conventionality  and  civilization.  Is  it 
then  strange,  and  a  criminal  thing,  that  some  blossom 
of  this  race  of  violence  should  be  the  modern  boxer? 

But  one  frets  too  much  and  with  too  little  reason. 
Belie  ourselves  as  we  will,  still  are  we  saved  by  that 
latent  savagery  which  dwells  stiffly  within  our  breasts, 
defending  and  keeping  its  own.  And  still  do  we  find 
fame  for  our  fist  heroes.  What  are  the  names  of  a 
century,  or  two  centuries  ago,  to  live  on  the  lips  of  the 
present?  With  the  Bettertons,  the  Booths,  the  Mack- 
lins,  the  Garricks,  and  the  Spranger  Barrys  of  the 
theaters;  with  the  Buckinghams,  the  Rochesters,  the 
De  Grammonts,  the  Herveys,  and  the  Bubb  Doding- 
tons  of  the  courts;  with  the  Clarendons,  the  Robert 
Walpoles,  the  Butes,  and  the  Peels  of  statescraft;  with 
the  Pitts,  the  Burkes,  the  Foxes,  and  the  Townsends  of 
legislation;  with  the  Fords,  the  Wycherleys,  the  Van- 
brughs,  the  Farquhars,  the  Gibbers,  and  the  Sheri- 
dans  of  the  drama;  with  the  Fieldings,  the  Smolletts, 
the  Richardsons,  the  Burneys,  and  the  Peacocks  of 
literature;  with  the  Youngs,  the  Shenstones,  the  Chat- 
tertons,  the  Grays,  and  the  Cowpers  of  the  poets;  with 
the  Georges  who  were  kings;  with  the  Eugenes  and  the 
Marlboroughs  who  were  soldiers;  with  the  Blakes  and 


68  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  Rodneys  who  were  sailors;  with  the  Nashes,  the 
Davies,  the  Alvanleys,  and  the  Brummells  who  were 
beaux,  and  therefore  nothings;  with  all  these,  plucked 
as  they  are  from  every  garden  of  celebration,  will  go  the 
names  of  the  Figgs,  the  Broughtons,  the  Jacksons,  the 
Belchers,  the  Humphries,  and  the  Mendozas  of  the 
boxers.  Despise  them  if  you  will;  the  last  will  live 
while  the  others  live,  and  those  exhaustless  lamps  of 
immortality  will  burn  with  equal  oil  for  all. 


VI. 


SOME    SMALL    CHANGE. 

Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast  been 

And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee  ; 
Therefore  lie  lend  the  forty  pence, 

And  other  forty  if  need  bee. 

— The  Heir  of  Linne. 

IT  has  long  been  a  thought  in  my  mind,  and  one 
nourished  by  what  I  have  read,  that  the  best  sketch  of 
a  life  would  ever  be  Boswellian.  The  author  may  tell 
more  of  his  man  in  one  small  characteristic  anecdote, 
not  to  hold  two  hundred  words,  than  would  be  possible 
by  any  direct  assertion  of  attribute,  though  he  extended 
it  to  be  two  thousand. 

It  is  a  world's  humor  to  laugh  at  poor  Boswell. 
The  latter  failed  of  that  respect,  which  might  else  have 
been  his  defense,  because  he  showed  himself  so  plainly 
spoil  and  quarry  to  an  abject  hero-worship  of  his  gruff 
and  bullying  favorite.  Yet  to-day  the  oracular  John- 
son is  almost  wholly  known  by  Boswell's  story  of  his 
life.  One  thousand  folk  read  the  little  Scotchman's 
six-volume  tale  of  Johnson,  before  one  is  found  to  turn 
the  pages  of  the  "  Rambler,"  or  the  "  Lives  of  the 
Poets,"  or  whatever  else  was  the  pen-output  of  our  un- 
kempt King-worshiping,  American-hating,  Thrale- 
sponging,  toad-devouring,  boot-licking,  tuft-hunting, 
nobility-stricken  lackey  of  a  lexicographer.  How 
thoroughly  do  we  infer  the  sickening  snobbery  of  John- 
son when  Boswell  tells  us  of  an  hour — three  o'clock  of 

69 


fO  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  morning — when  Beauclerc  and  Bennet  Langton, 
both  of  the  aristocracy,  and  the  first  of  the  purple 
blood  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  who  was  subsequently 
to  prove  his  descent  from  that  merry  monarch  by  the 
seduction  of  Bolingbroke's  wife,  arouse  the  philosopher 
by  a  merciless  banging  on  his  door;  and  how  the 
irate  Johnson,  cured  to  all  smiles  the  moment  he  dis- 
cerns the  bon-ton  character  of  the  disturbers,  gleefully 
huddles  on  his  snuffy  old  clothes,  and  joins  the  two  in 
their  drinking  gpree.  They — the  three — have  a  hilari- 
ous time  among  the  hucksters  of  Covent  Garden 
Market,  and  Beauclerc  and  Johnson  continue  to  be 
deeply  drunk  throughout  the  next  two  days. 

Garrick,  when  he  heard  of  it,  shook  his  head  with  a 
pretended  affectionate  alarm,  and,  remarking  on  the 
steep  suddenness  of  Johnson's  appearance  in  his  new 
role  of  a  roystering,  watch-beating  bullyboy,  said:  "I 
see  how  it  will  be.  I  shall  yet  have  to  bail  my  old 
friend  out  of  the  Hound  House." 

Truly,  the  Boswell  style,  albeit  not  at  all  times 
and  in  every  case  a  possibility,  is,  whenever  it  may 
be  resorted  to,  the  best  style.  And  because  it  be 
so,  it  is  in  my  thoughts,  now  that  we  have  Richard 
Croker  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  full-standing  on  the 
confines  of  that  region  of  politics  wherein  he  has  so 
wrought  and  waxed  and  grown  distinguished,  to  lapse 
into  a  list  of  small  tales  which  are  to  concern  him,  and 
in  the  relation  whereof  he  is  to  more  or  less  move  about 
and  expose  to  the  reader  such  glimpses  of  his  nature 
as  may  serve  the  half-fair  mind  to  some  correct  picture 
of  the  man  himself.  The  above  will  afford  explana- 
tion of  what,  for  a  chapter  or  two,  is  to  be  a  direct  de- 
parture from  plans  pursued  so  far.  Therefore,  with  no 


BOSWELLIAN  STUDIES.  71 

more  of  prelude,  let  us  tune  ourselves  to  a  Boswellian 
strain. 

When  one  is  brought  to  sketch  him  who,  like  Richard 
Croker,  lives  in  a  midwhirl  of  every  activity  of  poli- 
tics, and  put  in  type  his  attributes  and  characteristics, 
whether  inherent  or  acquired,  one  should  call  to  one's 
side  some  spirit  of  conservatism.  For  if  one  be  of 
that  man's  party,  and,  as  it  may  be,  more  or  less  his 
friend,  one  is  prone  to  overrun  the  hunt — overstate 
those  matters  which  go  to  the  subject's  grace;  equally, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  one  be  of  an  opposition,  and  per- 
chance adds  to  a  difference  of  politics  some  feud,  per- 
sonal or  otherwise,  one  would  have  natural,  and  it 
might  be  unconscious,  inducements  to  note  only  the 
wrong  side — remember  naught  save  those  imperfec- 
tions to  which  everyone  is  heir.  Also,  what  is  above 
stated  of  him  who  writes  might  with  equal  cogency  be 
said  of  him  who  reads. 

Richard  Croker  is  broad  and  thick  and  strong  in  per- 
son; short  and  dark  as  a  December  day.  He  is  fortu- 
nate in  an  abundance  of  brains,  as  his  seven  and  three- 
eighths  hat  might  testify.  His  hair  has  been  brave;  it  is 
all  at  its  post,  guarding  against  baldness.  Gray,  almost 
to  whiteness,  it  tells  plainly  of  those  fifty-eight  years 
he  has  witnessed.  There  is  naught  of  ferocity  nor 
grimness  to  Croker.  His  gray  eyes  are  kindly  and  sym- 
pathetic, while  the  lower  face  is  framed  and  softened 
by  a  full  beard  and  mustache,  clipped  like  a  garden 
hedge,  and  which,  once  dark,  wears  like  his  hair  the 
frosts  of  time  and  care.  Croker  dresses  himself  well, 
and  in  the  mode;  he  is  as  apt  to  lapse  into  evening 
dress  with  the  disappearance  of  the  sun  as  any 
exquisite.  All  in  all,  be  it  day  or  evening,  he  presents 


72  RICHARD  CROKER. 

a  pleasant,  handsome  figure,  and  one  marked  as  distin- 
guished even  to  the  stranger  eye.  His  imposing  virtue 
is  courage.  His  lower  jaw,  broad,  firm,  strong  as  a 
bear-trap,  bears  plain,  true  testimony  of  this  to  the 
face  reader. 

Proceeding  in  a  fashion  at  once  heedless  and  un- 
sequent,  this  story  concerning  Kichard  Croker  might 
be  told.  His  attention  was  called  to  the  large  number 
of  men,  once  strong  in  Democratic  politics,  who  had 
been  cast  over,  and  were  outside  the  party  breastworks. 

"  They  may  combine  and  make  you  trouble,"  said  the 
gentleman  who  was  discussing  the  matter  with  Croker. 
The  latter  shook  his  head  in  confident  negative. 

"  They  can't  combine,"  he  replied;  "  they're  dis- 
honest, and  they  can't  combine.  No  combination  can 
be  made  where  all  are  dishonest  and  each  one  knows 
it.  The  first  element  of  leadership,"  he  continued,  "  is 
honesty — perfect  honesty.  The  honest  man  will  pre- 
vail. Because  other  men  can  trust  him.  A  rascal 
can  trust  an  honest  man;  and  a  rascal  can't  trust 
a  rascal.  You  might  take  one  hundred  men,  ten  of 
them  honest  and  ninety  of  them  false,  and  put  them 
away  on  an  island.  Come  back  in  two  months,  and, 
for  the  reasons  I've  given  you,  you'll  find  the  ten 
honest  men  dominating  the  rest." 

One  may  derive  the  fact  of  a  man's  power  and  per- 
sonal force,  just  as  the  astronomers  discovered  the  ex- 
istence of  Neptune  and  Uranus  before  a  telescope  had 
been  developed  by  which  these  planets  were  brought 
within  the  radius  of  observations.  The  cunning 
astronomer  knew  of  the  existence,  and  as  well  the  size, 
of  these  by  the  way  their  comrade  planets  acted. 
Croker's  strength  might  be  come  to  in  the  same  way. 


THE  "MACHINE'S"  DEFENSE.  73 

His  mild  manner,  his  soft  voice,  the  quiet  atmosphere, 
might  breed  a  doubt  were  it  not  for  the  attitude  of 
the  thirty-five  Tammany  "  leaders "  who  belt  him 
about. 

There  are  ninety  thousand  folk  on  the  roster  of 
Tammany  Hall,  each  with  a  vote,  and  each  with  a 
thirst  for  place.  From  these  ninety  thousand  come 
the  "  leaders  ";  not  so  much  by  consent,  as  by  con- 
quest of  the  suffrages  expressed  at  primaries  of  the 
said  ninety  thousand.  These  "  leaders,"  chiefs  of  their 
clans,  brave,  quick  of  thought,  decisive  as  a  guillotine, 
are  the  very  heart  of  force.  And  yet  these  "  leaders," 
bowing  to  none  besides,  yield  to  Croker  as  willows  to 
the  wind.  From  their  movements,  one  might  know  of 
the  magnitude  of  Croker,  even  it  were  not  discernible 
of  the  man  himself. 

Croker  is  the  chief  of  the  chiefs.  This  eminence 
has  come  to  him  not  by  gift,  but  as  prize  to  powers 
native  of  himself.  It  is  his  because  of  a  first  courage 
and  valor  and  skill  on  the  battlefields  of  politics. 
In  those  old  Norse  days  it  was  no  fullness  of  riches  nor 
of  family  which  chose  a  leader;  it  was  deeds.  And 
when  the  rough  sea-soldiery  of  Norway  found  one  who 
rose  loftier  than  the  others  by  dint  of  strength  in  war, 
they  made  a  platform  of  their  locked  shields,  and  lift- 
ing him  high  above  their  heads  proclaimed  him 
"chief."  In  similar  fashion  did  Croker  attain  his 
leadership. 

Eichard  Croker  is  a  firm  apostle  of  organized  politics. 
He  believes  in  the  "machine,"  and  was  reared  at  the 
knee  of  that  theory.  One  day  he  spoke  to  me  on  this 
point.  "  Every  successful  enterprise,"  he  said,  "  must 
have  organization  and  a  head.  Everything  which  sue- 


74  RICHARD  CROKER. 

ceeds  must  and  does  have  organization;  without  it  all 
things  fall  to  pieces.  Be  it  a  store,  or  an  army,  or  a 
church,  or  a  party  in  politics,  it  must  have  organiza- 
tion and  a  head.  If  I'm  a  '  boss,'  then  a  merchant,  a 
bishop,  or  a  general  is  a  '  boss ';  and  a  president  is  the 
big 'boss 'of  all." 

Perhaps  the  first  impression  one  gets  of  Richard 
Croker  is  that  of  guilelessness.  He  looks  as  though 
one  might  with  ordinary  effort  deceive  and  destroy 
him.  This  notion  is  error,  grievous  and  complete;  he 
is  very  wise;  and  a  fox  is  as  a  fool  to  him.  Still  his 
plan  primarily  is  to  trust  every  man.  He  explains  it  in 
this  way. 

"  I  make  it  a  point  to  trust  all  men  once — trust  them 
with  my  eyes  shut.  And  the  scheme  has  its  success. 
Nine  men  of  ten  are  honest,  and  will  loyally  respond  to 
their  obligations.  The  tenth  may  be  false  and  cheat. 
But  at  that,  I  am  right  nine  times  to  be  in  error  once. 
If  a  man  prove  false,  I  never  trust  him  again." 

Children  and  animals  are  folk  of  an  affectionate, 
warm  interest  to  Eichard  Croker.  One  may  be  walk- 
ing and  talking  on  some  subject  of  interest  with  him. 
Should  the  two  meet  some  nursling  of  three  or  four 
years'  standing,  Croker  loses  sight  for  the  time 
of  the  topic  under  discussion.  He  neither  hears  nor 
cares.  His  whole  thought  is  on  the  child.  He  will 
stoop  down  until  his  face  is  on  a  level  with  the  little 
face  that  has  stopped  him.  He  and  the  infant  will  beam 
on  each  other  for  the  space,  perhaps,  of  three  minutes. 
The  converse  is  wordless,  and  of  the  eyes.  However, 
they  must  say  much  that  is  loving  and  pleasant  to  one 
another,  for  each  breaks  off  the  interview  and  goes  his 
several  way  with  the  best  of  thoughts  touching  his  new 


I 

D 


D3 
5 

M 


WHAT  IS  A  GREAT  MAN?  75 

acquaintance.  "  That's  a  good  baby,"  Croker  will  say 
thoughtfully,  as  he  resumes  his  walk,  and  as  if  he  con- 
versed with  himself;  "  that's  a  good  baby."  Then,  with 
a  half  laugh,  as  one  who  comes  back  from  the  beau- 
tiful to  the  harder,  sterner  claims  of  life,  he  will  re- 
sume the  broken  conversation. 

It  was  said  above  that  Eichard  Croker  loved  ani- 
mals. His  delight  in  a  horse  is  without  a  boundary. 
It  is  probable,  however,  that  his  best  affections  are 
given  to  the  bulldog.  Croker  was  in  hap-hazard  con- 
versation moved  to  an  expression  of  the  high  esteem  in 
which  he  holds  that  kindly,  yet  resolute,  animal.  The 
talk  ran  thus: 

"What  do  you  call  a  great  man?"  asked  Croker  of 
his  friend. 

"It's  difficult  to  define  a  great  man,"  replied  the 
other,  "but  I  might  give  you  an  example.  For  in- 
stance, while  I've  no  great  love  for  him,  there  are  those 
who  say  that  McKinley  is  a  great  man." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  retorted  Croker.  "  I'm  told  he'll 
desert  his  principles  and  his  friends." 

"  That's  scarcely  an  argument  against  greatness, 
however,"  replied  the  other.  "An  evasion  of  prin- 
ciple, and  a  desertion  of  friends,  are  frequent  earmarks 
of  greatness.  There  are  many  who  must  do  both  to 
become  great." 

"  It's  not  my  idea  of  greatness,"  said  Croker.  "  The 
man  I  call  great  is  the  man  who,  win  or  lose,  fights  and 
falls  by  his  standard — who  never  gives  up  his  cause  nor 
his  friend.  The  great  man  is  he  who  never  falters  nor 
flies — never  lets  go." 

"  By  that  argument,  you  might  call  a  bulldog  a  great 
man." 


76  RICHARD  CROKER. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,"  retorted  Croker,  with 
an  unusual  flash;  "if  a  bulldog  were  a  man  he'd  be  a 
great  man.  He's  kindly,  loyal,  brave;  and  when  he 
fights,  as  all  on  earth,  man  or  dog,  or  what  you  will, 
must  fight,  he  fights  to  win  or  die.  He  will  come  off 
victor,  or  he  will  die  where  he  stands.  Yes,  indeed;  if 
a  bulldog  were  a  man,  he'd  be  a  great  man." 

This  was  at  dinner.  Fish  appeared  and  Croker 
turned  thoughtfully  to  its  dispatch,  his  face  disclosing 
plainly  that  the  man  and  the  bulldog  were  still  gaining 
comparison  in  his  mind,  measurably  to  the  disadvan- 
tage of  the  man. 

There  is  a  deep  strain  of  religion  in  Richard  Croker, 
and  while  he  might  miss  a  political  convention,  he  will 
not  miss  the  Sunday  service  of  his  church.  The  sales- 
man of  a  bookseller  once  said  with  an  air  of  half 
astonishment,  "  Croker  came  in  to-day  and  bought  a 
large  consignment  of  books.  What  do  you  think  they 
were  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  say,"  replied  the  listener;  "  horse  books, 
perhaps,  or  books  on  dogs  or  field  sports." 

"No,"  responded  the  literature  salesman,  "every 
one  of  them  was  a  religious  book." 

If  some  master  of  politics  and  men  were  to  glance 
along  New  York,  he  would  in  the  last  conclusion  de- 
cide that  Richard  Croker  was  civilly  the  best  restrain- 
ing influence.  Among  those  about  him,  as  well  as 
among  those  about  the  chiefs  of  the  opposition,  a  sharp 
search  would  find  ones  who,  with  the  least  of  opening 
or  opportunity,  would  plunder  the  public  of  its  every 
dollar.  It  arises  chiefly  from  the  fact  that  our  "  best 
citizens "  do  nothing  to  assert  themselves  in  prac- 
tical politics,  save  growl  as  they  cast  their  ballots 


TAMMANY  TEMPERANCE.  77 

and  grumble  as  they  pay  their  taxes.  The  desperado 
of  politics  acts  otherwise;  he  joins  some  party;  he 
crowds  to  the  front;  he  shouts;  he  seeks  office;  he  grabs 
what  he  may,  and  never  permits  a  question  of  public 
morality  to 'get  between  the  legs  of  his  desires  and  trip 
them  up.  There  are  blacklegs  in  politics,  as,  for  that 
matter,  there  are  blacklegs  in  banks.  There  is  this, 
however,  to  be  said  of  the  Tammany  blackleg;  the  man 
he  most  fears,  and  the  last  to  whom  he  is  willing  to 
discover  his  villainies,  is  Kichard  Croker. 

Said  a  gentleman,  commenting  on  this:  "If  I  were 
business  manager  of  the  city  of  New  York,  my  first  and 
anxious  care  would  be  to  appoint  a  commission  of 
doctors  to  look  after  Croker's  health.  Were  he  to  die, 
I  verily  believe  the  politicians — Democratic,  Republi- 
can, and  Mugwump — would  steal  everything  but  the 
back  fence." 

There  is  much  of  native  purity  in  the  make-up  of 
Richard  Croker.  Naturally  he  is  fine  and  overstrung. 
Men  drunken,  loud  profanity,  obstreperous  boasting,  or 
a  vulgar  story,  or  one  with  a  Rabelaisian  finish,  evokes 
his  disgust  on  the  instant.  Nervous  as  a  running 
horse,  such  things  are  to  him  a  discord  of  morals — as 
if  one  struck  a  harp  with  a  hammer. 

Croker  never  drinks  strong  waters  and  has  a  dread 
of  drunken  men.  This  fact  has  led  to  curious,  not  to 
say  sober,  results.  The  men  of  Tammany  not  alone 
obey,  they  imitate  their  great  war  chief.  And  thus  it 
falls  that  there  is  scant  drinking  among  the  whelps  of 
the  Tiger.  The  club,  to  which  Croker  is  as  the  soul, 
with  a  membership  of  thirty-five  hundred,  doesn't,  man 
for  man,  consume  one-tenth  as  much  strong  drink  as 
does  any  of  the  four  large  social  clubs  of  the  town. 


?8  RICHARD  CROEER. 

Drinking  is  decidedly  without  vogue  in  Tammany 
upper  circles,  and  all  through  the  sober  example  of 
Richard  Croker. 

There  is  an  anecdote  apropos  of  Croker's  feeling  on 
this  point  of  drink.  A  wine  merchant,  distinguished 
for  an  eagerness  to  do  business,  approached  Croker. 
There  was  a  gentleman  in  converse  with  the  latter  at 
the  time. 

"  It's  a  mere  matter  of  business,"  quoth  the  earnest 
man  of  wines,  "  and,  as  it's  no  secret,  I  had  as  soon  state 
it  before  our  friend  here  as  not.  This  is  the  proposi- 
tion: No  one  wants  you  to  actively  engage  yourself  in 
the  trade;  but  if  you'll  give  me  permission  to  use  your 
name  as  an  agent  for  our  wines,  we'll  pay  you  thirty- 
five  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,"  replied  Croker,  while  his  brow 
clouded.  "  I  don't  drink  myself,  and  wouldn't  for 
what  money  you  could  name  be  the  cause  of  leading 
other  men  to  drink — certainly  not  young  men.  I  want 
to  see  men  free  to  do  as  they  please;  about  drink  as  well 
as  every  proper  thing.  But  I  couldn't  lend  my  name 
to  what  you  ask." 

This  was  said  in  that  quiet  tone  characteristic  of 
Croker,  and  which  makes  one  feel  its  unchangeability 
as  if  one  were  dealing  with  the  eternal  rock.  The  mo- 
ment, however,  that  Croker  had  disposed  of  the  pro- 
posal in  so  far  as  it  pressed  upon  himself,  the  instinct 
of  suggestion  arose. 

"Why  don't  you  get  'Smiling'  John  Kelly?"  said 
Croker.  "  He's  always  going  about  among  folk. 
Everybody  likes  him;  he  drinks  wine,  and  would  be  the 
best  man  you  could  get." 

"  I'd  take  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the  wine  merchant. 


' '  SMILING  "  JOHN  SELL T,  79 

"  Suppose  you  speak  to  him  about  it.     I'll  give  him 
fifteen  thousand  a  year." 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  that  night  when  "  Smiling 
John  "  entered  the  club  like  a  left-over  ray  of  sunshine. 

"  John,"  said  Croker  with  a  smile,  for  he  felt  the 
humor  of  it,  "  John,  I've  got  a  place  for  you." 

"  Have  you?  "said  "  Smiling  John,"  with  a  cheerful 
air — he  had  refused  more  than  one  of  the  city's  highest 
offices — "have  you,  Chief?  What  do  I  do,  and  what 
do  I  get?" 

"  You  don't  do  anything,"  replied  Croker.  "  You 
go  about  meeting  people;  you  have  a  glass  of  wine  and 
a  good  word  with  them,  just  as  you  do  now.  As  for 
what  you  get,  John — you  get  fifteen  thousand  dollars  a 
year." 

"  You'll  have  to  be  clearer  than  that,"  replied  "  Smil- 
ing John,"  his  countenance  aglow  with  a  usual  be- 
nign philanthropy;  "  who  is  it  that  wants  me?  " 

"  It's  Gentile,  the  wine  man,"  replied  Croker.  "  He 
wants  you  to  sell  his  wine." 

"  He  does,  does  he?  "  said  "  Smiling  John,"  in  tones 
of  pleasant  scorn;  "  we'll  settle  that  easily.  Tell  him 
I'd  rather  buy  it." 

There  are  two  systems  adopted  by  or  native  to  poli- 
ticians which  are  more  easily  described  than  declared. 
William  Jennings  Bryan,  not  long  since  running  for 
high  office,  would  stand  exponent  of  one;  while  Richard 
Croker  is  a  leading  expression  of  the  other.  Bryan 
with  offices  to  bestow,  or  favors  of  place  to  give,  would 
settle  a  long,  rich  list  of  them  on  those  who  were  his 
foes.  Croker,  going  naturally  to  the  other  system, 
would  give  all  he  had  to  friends  and  party  followers. 
The  thought  of  each,  in  one  of  its  phases,  would  be 


80  RICHARD  CROKER. 

political,  and  born  of  an  anxiety  to  draw  strength  to  his 
banner.  The  first  would  argue  that  his  friends,  reward 
or  no  reward,  would  remain  his  friends;  while  with 
place  he  might  buy  an  enemy,  and  so  augment  his 
power  while  depleting  opposition.  Croker,  with  less 
coldness  and  more  of  the  warm,  red  blood  of  gratitude, 
would  enrich  his  friends  and  scowl  defiance  at  his  foes. 
And  yet  he,  too,  would  be  moved  of  a  battle-logic  to 
that  same  thought  which  the  other,  dominated  of  a 
peace  policy,  entertained.  The  latter,  as  stated,  would 
with  office  and  present  of  place  turn  an  enemy  into  a 
friend,  and  so  add  to  his  power.  Croker  would  give  all 
to  his  adherents,  and  thereby  teach  his  enemy  looking 
on  that  it  was  good  to  be  his  friend,  to  the  end 
of  so  turning  said  enemy  that  in  the  next  collision  he 
would  be  found  beneath  the  Croker  flag,  a  paragon  of 
daring  energy  in  its  defense.  The  Croker  system  is 
the  better  system;  it  would  last  centuries  while  the 
other,  more  cold  and  more  calculating,  wouldn't  last 
years. 

Eichard  Croker  is  a  devout  follower  of  the  spoils 
system.  He  believes  with  the  dead  Senator  Marcy  of 
this  State,  who,  in  the  debates  during  the  thirties  over 
the  confirmation  of  Jackson's  appointment  of  Van 
Buren  to  be  Minister  to  England,  said:  "  The  Demo- 
crats of  New  York  when  they  meet  defeat  expect  to 
step  down  and  out.  When  they  succeed,  they  look  to 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  triumph.  They  see  no  harm 
in  the  aphorism  that  to  the  victors  belong  the  spoils  of 
the  enemy." 

However,  this  flowing  chapter  has  overflowed  its 
banks.  One  story  more  and  we  will  close  and  go  to 
the  next.  There  was  at  dinner  with  Richard  Croker 


ONE  MUST  FORGIVE.  61 

one  who,  in  cold  and  plotting  blood,  had  done  his  best 
or  worst  to  pile  a  mountain  of  injury  on  the  Croker 
head.  Later  in  the  evening,  a  friend  wondered  sav- 
agely at  Croker  for  his  toleration: 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  the  friend,  "  in  the  very  noon 
of  power.  Here  is  he  who  conspired  to  do  you  the 
greatest  wrong  one  man  may  do  another.  With  the 
falsest  of  charges,  at  which  he  himself  connived,  he 
aimed  at  your  liberty  and  life.  Nor  was  it  his  fault  he 
failed.  Now  that  you  have  him  in  your  hand  to  crush, 
you  let  him  go — you  dine  with  him  in  all  apparent 
friendship." 

"  What  you  say  is  true,"  replied  Croker,  with  an 
air  whereof  the  major  part  was  sorrow;  "  what  you  say 
is  true.  But  there's  one  thing  you  don't  know.  That 
man  came  to  me  and  told  me  he  was  wrong,  and  asked 
me  to  forgive  him.  When  a  man  does  that,  no  matter 
what  he's  attempted  against  me,  I've  got  to  forgive 
him." 


VII. 

A    CHARACTEB    STUDY. 

The  captain  said  as  ladies  writhed  their  neck, 
To  aee  the  dying  dolphin  flap  the  deck  : 
"  If  we  go  down,  on  us  these  gentry  sup, 
Wa  dine  upon  them  if  we  haul  them  up  ; 
Wise  men  applaud  us  when  we  eat  the  eater, 
As  devils  laugh  when  keen  men  cheat  the  cheater." 

—The  Sea  Voyage. 

WHILE  I  am  engaged  with  the  collection  on  my 
pencil's  point  of  a  list  of  anecdotes  of  Richard  Croker, 
intending  to  string  them  on  the  thread  of  narrative  as 
a  child  strings  beads,  and  all  to  show  the  mental  make- 
up and  as  well  the  methods  of  the  man,  a  visitor 
arrives.  The  latter,  discovering  my  task,  offers  as 
query  to  be  answered:  "How  does  one  account  for 
Croker's  success?  What  would  be  that  analysis,  to  lay 
out  each  by  itself  those  elements  within  him  which, 
combined,  give  him  his  command?  " 

Reply  to  this  is  no  task  trivial.  That  man  who  can 
make  a  right  one  could  go  to  the  cradles  of  his  day  and 
point  out  a  future's  champions.  There  is  nothing  so 
successful  as  success.  One  sees  it,  appreciates  it,  knows 
that  victory  exists.  Yet,  whether  the  success  in  hand 
be  the  success  of  a  man,  or  an  idea,  or  an  army,  it  is 
ever  difficult  of  display,  either  in  its  seed  or  source  or 
that  argument  of  growth  which  bore  it  as  its  fruit. 

Croker  dominates  almost  four  millions  of  folk;  his 
power  is  hard  to  overstate;  to  say  it  is  Czar-like  is  to 

82 


TERSE  STRATA  Of  FOLK.  83 

shear  it  of  frontier  and  tell  but  a  part  of  the  story. 
And  he  has  continued  himself  thus  in  the  conning 
tower  of  control  for  nearly  sixteen  years;  and  that,  in 
the  face  of  constant  and  mighty  strivings,  within  as 
well  as  without,  to  evict  him.  How  does  he  do  this? 
What  are  those  inner  things  called  attributes  which 
give  him  and  protect  him  in  this  supremacy?  As  I've 
stated,  it's  something  more  than  hard,  it's  impossible, 
to  tell;  and  he  who  makes  essay  of  the  task  will  garner 
error  as  rustics  garner  corn. 

Richard  Croker  was,  for  one  thing,  fortunate  of  his 
birth.  He  comes,  as  do  ninety  per  cent,  of  mankind, 
and  may  Heaven  be  thanked  for  it!  from  that  great 
safe,  hale,  valid  middle  class  who  must  work  to  live, 
and  who  construct  the  moral  solvency  of  time.  There 
are  here,  as  there  are  everywhere,  three  great  strata 
of  folk.  There  is  .the  upper  or  stratum  of  the  aristoc- 
racy; the  middle  stratum  of  which  I  speak  above;  and 
that  stratum  to  blackly  be  the  base.  Of  these  strata 
the  upper  is  born  assured  behind  the  barriers  of  ac- 
cumulated money;  the  lowest  comes  and  dwells  without 
the  barriers  of  possible  accumulation.  The  one  lives 
without  apprehension  of  need;  the  other  without  ex- 
pectation of  betterment.  One,  per  consequence,  is 
without  fear,  and  the  other  without  hope;  and  both  are 
thereby  idle,  both  desperate,  and  both  vicious. 

"  We  are  born  evil,"  says  Machiavelli,  "  and  become 
good  only  by  necessity." 

This  pressure — moral — counted  on  by  the  Florentine 
doesn't,  in  the  two  classes  under  contemplation,  exist; 
therefore,  save  for  what  threat  the  law  may  make, — and 
that  is  ever  too  slight  to  manage  either  the  mental  or 
the  moral  side  of  men, — being  born  evil,  they  continue 


84  RICHARD  CROKER. 

evil  to  the  end.  Some  homely  simile  for  humanity  in 
the  mass  might  be  found  in  any  bubbling  kettle  of  soup. 
At  the  top,  the  froth;  at  the  bottom,  the  dregs;  while 
that  which  boils  between  is  all  that  is  palatable,  health- 
ful, and  worth  an  honest  spoon.  It  is  the  middle  class, 
the  class  of  effort,  made  strong  and  clean  by  the  pres- 
sure of  a  very  contest  to  live,  which  has  been  in  all 
times  the  hope  and  stay  of  races. 

Every  name  worth  ink  for  its  embalming  comes  from 
the  middle  stratum.  True!  one  hears  of  your  kings 
and  royal  princes  who  are  declared  great  by  history. 
But  were  Truth  to  pry  among  the  facts,  how  would  de- 
cision go?  Is  it  a  Black  Prince  to  capture  a  King  of 
France  at  Poitiers?  You  will  find  a  Chandos  ever  at 
his  princely  elbow;  and  who,  holding  him  in  military 
leading  strings  from  first  to  last,  tells  him  when  to  ad- 
vance, and  when  to  pause,  and  in  all  things  what  to  do. 
It  is  an  Audley  who  was  declared  the  bravest  and  most 
valorous  knight  at  Poitiers,  and  the  Black  Prince  gave 
him  weighty  reward  for  it.  And  yet  that  Audley  was 
so  sure  as  to  where  true  praise  belonged,  that  the  next 
day,  as  he  lay  with  his  wounds,  he  quartered  the  royal 
largesse  among  his  four  squires,  Button  of  Dutton, 
Delves  of  Doddington,  Fowlechurst  of  Crew,  and 
Hawkestone  of  Wainehill,  with  the  observe  to  those 
whom  he  had  called  to  witness  the  donative:  "  You  see 
here  these  four  squires.  What  glory  I  may  have  gained 
has  been  through  their  means,  and  by  their  valor;  on 
which  account  I  give  and  resign  to  them  the  gifts  which 
my  lord  the  Prince  has  been  pleased  to  bestow  on  me." 
It  may  be  urged  that  Chandos,  Audley,  and  the  latter^s 
four  squires  were  not  at  all  of  the  middle  class,  and  of 
the  aristocracy.  That  in  halfway  is  true;  but  only  of 


THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  85 

their  day.  Their  style  did  not  leave  them  without  the 
need  of  effort,  and  at  their  trade  of  war  they  were 
bound  to  toil,  or  go  wanting. 

This  story  of  Poitiers  points  sundry  morals.  Edward 
the  Black  Prince  is  the  putative  hero  of  that  battle, 
without  shadow  of  true  claim  for  his  support.  Also, 
he  is  pedestaled  as  the  military  figure  of  his  century, 
when  such  mere  captains  of  banditti  as  Hawkwood, 
Calverly,  and  Knolles,  all  Edward's  soldiers  at  one  and 
another  time,  demonstrate  themselves  by  their  achieve- 
ments of  rapine,  which  range  from  the  Northern  oceans 
to  the  Mediterranean,  and  include  the  taking  of  cities, 
and  even  the  capture  and  ransom  of  a  Pope,  to  be  his 
easy  and  complete  superiors.  One  should  not  trust 
history  when  it  tells  of  a  prince. 

Or  is  it  in  a  field  of  mental  action  a  king  is  to  brightly 
glance?  Investigation  will  show  that  he  burns  like 
the  moon  by  the  reflected  light  of  some  sun  of  com- 
monalty. Is  it  some  Henry  who  is  to  defy  a  Rome  and 
reorganize  a  church?  One  will  ever  find  a  Duns 
Scotus,  a  Wickliffe,  an  Occam,  and  a  Luther,  to  precede 
him  or  live  in  his  day,  to  plant  that  vine  of  which  he  has 
the  vintage.  No;  turn  what  page  of  the  past  one  will,  or 
read  the  present  as  it  runs  before  one's  eyes,  it  will  bear 
note  that  the  very  uppermost  and  the  very  lowest 
classes  are  deserts  to  produce  nothing  of  moment  nor 
of  might;  and  that  it  is  the  strong,  deep  soil  of  the 
middle  class  wherefrom  the  oaks  of  tallest  greatness 
always  spring.  And,  as  set  forth,  Croker  starts  with 
that  birth-advantage  of  rise  in  the  middle  class. 

That  mere  origin  of  middle  class  is  not,  however,  to 
guarantee  any  certainty  of  a  topmost  success.  Many 
thousands  have  owned  it;  and  while  they  could  boast 


86  &ICHARD 

on  their  deathbeds  that  they  had  lived  with  respect  and 
paid  their  debts,  these  feats,  while  indubitably  ones  of 
magnitude  and  heroic  worth,  are  withal  too  frequent 
of  performance  to  earn  a  name  as  great,  where 
the  soul  of  the  latter  epithet  depends  for  its  existence 
on  the  unusual,  on  a  poverty  of  occurrence.  One 
must  go  further  who  attempts  to  expound  the  year-in 
and  year-out  victory  of  Richard  Croker. 

Perhaps  one  may  come  to  some  plainness  in  the  busi- 
ness on  new  and  other  pathways  of  conjecture. 
Machiavelli  writes,  "  I  have  many  times  considered 
with  myself  that  the  occasion  of  any  man's  good  or  bad 
fortune  consists  in  his  correspondence  and  accommo- 
dation with  his  times."  Our  philosopher  then  proceeds 
to  disclose  that  in  a  Roman  day  when  Hannibal  was  at 
top  bent  of  success,  it  needed  caution  and  care  and  an 
utmost  discreet  employment  of  every  Roman  power  to 
check  the  African's  advance  and  bring  him  to  a  stand. 
This  slow  and  steady  caution  Fabius  possessed,  and  its 
successful  use  against  Hannibal  made  Fabius  the 
greatest  name  in  Rome. 

But  Fabius  could  be  nothing  but  cautious.  The  re- 
quirements of  the  times  took  unto  themselves  mutation. 
Hannibal,  withheld  from  Rome,  must  be  made  to  re- 
turn to  Carthage.  Scipio,  who  was  aggressive,  said: 
"Invade  Africa;  assail  Carthage."  Fabius,  the  cau- 
tious, was  not  equal  to  anything  other  than  defense. 
Fabius  opposed  the  plan  of  Scipio.  But  the  popular 
thought,  which  was  with  the  careful  Fabius  when  close 
peril  waved  sword  above  its  head,  having  gotten  breath 
and  courage  with  the  safety  which  Fabius  had  won, 
turned  to  follow  and  sustain  the  headlong  Scipio. 
Fabius  saw  decline  and  Scipio  rose  above  him,  to  be- 


CAUTION  WEDS  DARING.  87 

come  the  hero  and  the  leader  in  his  stead.  Fabius 
was  fitted  to  his  times  in  the  first  instance  and  had 
renown;  in  the  last,  albeit  he  had  in  no  whit  changed, 
Fabius  was  out  of  line  with  his  day,  and  so  lost  to 
Scipio,  who  joined  the  new  times  to  a  hair,  the  honors 
he  had  gathered. 

Richard  Croker  might  be  regarded  as  a  composite 
of  both  Fabius  and  Scipio;  he  weds  caution  to  daring 
in  an  extreme  degree  of  each.  He  can  dissemble  like  a 
Talleyrand;  or  he  can  be  as  bluff  and  blunt  as  any  Henry 
the  Eighth.  He  can  follow  policy  and  intrigue  like  a 
Louis  the  Eleventh;  or  he  can  charge  as  recklessly  as 
any  Bull  of  Burgundy — think  in  the  saddle,  and  carry 
decision  on  the  point  of  his  sword. 

This  thought  of  matching  your  times,  expressed  by 
the  Italian,  had  a  partial  assertion  by  the  late  Voorhees 
of  Indiana.  He  was  reminded  of  having  given,  the 
session  before,  utterance  to  deduction  and  statement 
which  went  to  the  contradiction  of  his  that  day's 
Senate  speech. 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  possible,"  observed  Voorhees  in 
reply,  and  he  had  the  air  of  one  who  consents  to  a 
weary  truth;  "  it  is  quite  possible  that  I  do  not  talk 
now  as  I  talked  then.  But  times  change  and  de- 
mands change  with  them.  You  should  remember  that 
statesmanship  is  simply  the  science  of  circumstance." 

What  the  tall  orator  said  would  have  been  evenly 
true  had  he  changed  a  word  and  made  it:  "  Leadership 
is  the  science  of  circumstance." 

JEsop,  the  fabulist  and  slave,  didn't  believe  with 
Machiavelli,  and  was  taught  painfully  his  error.  It 
is  ^sop's  excuse,  perhaps,  that  he  lived  two  thousand 
years  before  the  other,  and  thereby  lost  the  guiding 


88  RICHARD  CROKER, 

benefit  of  his  precepts.  2Esop  was  with,  his  master  on 
a  journey.  The  latter,  to  be  in  favor  with  his  wife, — 
a  fate  for  which  all  good,  wise  husbands  pray, — con- 
ceived for  her  a  sweet  surprise,  and  one  which  ladies 
love. 

"  Take  this,"  quoth  he,  "  and  return  to  my  house  and 
give  it  to  the  one  who  loves  me  best." 

With  that  he  put  into  ^Esop's  gnarled  hands  a  neck- 
lace. The  malignant  little  hunchback  flew  home, 
exhibited  the  jewel,  and  repeated  his  master's 
words. 

"It  is  for  me! "  said  the  wife,  all  conscious  smiles, 
and  stretching  forth  an  ardent  hand. 

"  No/'  retorted  J£sop,  "  it  is  not  for  you.  My  mas- 
ter's commands  design  it  for  the  one  who  loves  him 
best." 

With  that  yEsop  flung  the  gift  about  the  neck  of  a 
spaniel  and  was  subsequently  well  clubbed  for  his  in- 
sight. '^Esop  might  more  wisely  have  minded  his 
times.  Richard  Croker  would  have  come  better  off 
and  disregarded  a  fact  to  adhere  to  an  intention. 

That  great  requisite  of  leadership  is  to  be  sure  you're 
followed.  Without  following  there  is  no  leader.  One 
may  be  wise,  and  live  in  isolation;  one  may  be  right, 
and  be  alone,  and  generally  one  is.  But  one  cannot  on 
such  terms  write  one's  self  "leader,"  and  Richard 
Croker  found  this  knowledge  in  his  breast  at  birth. 
He  will  make  no  struggle  against  the  popular  will,  and 
guides  his  adherents  by  going  with  them;  leads  them 
by  walking  at  their  head.  And  there  has  never  been 
commander  of  history — not  one — who  was  not  driven, 
in  his  own  calls  and  to  preserve  himself,  to  follow  that 
same  axiom  of  supremacy.  The  First  Charles  de- 


THAT   WHITEHALL   TRAGEDY.  89 

clined  it,  and  at  Whitehall  that  winter  day  he  lost  his 
head.  It  was  probably  the  least  head  in  his  dominions; 
but  it  was  of  moment  to  him.  He  forfeited  it  by  fail- 
ure to  match  his  times;  because  he  would  go  one  way 
when  his  people  would  go  another.  Cromwell,  greater 
than  one  thousand  kings  in  one,  with  more  of  courage 
and  wisdom  and  worth  of  manhood  than  ever  put  on 
English  crown,  was  fain  to  swerve  and  turn — twist  like 
a  fox,  shift  color  like  a  chameleon,  to  sustain  himself. 
Cromwell  succeeded,  however,  for  he  made  sure  to 
match  his  times.  It  is  by  identical  tactics  that  Kich- 
ard  Croker,  during  his  sixteen  years  of  leadership,  has 
buttressed  against  overthrow.  It  is  thus  he  conserves 
his  interest  and  treasures  himself. 

It  is  an  enchanting  study,  this  study  of  success. 
Would  you  have  victory?  Embrace  your  times  and 
make  yourself  their  partner;  clip  and  trim  your  pro- 
fessions with  the  scissors  of  current  taste;  don't  stand 
aloof,  don't  go  too  close;  make  love  to  your  hour  and 
offer  honest  marriage.  And  while  you  say  "  yes  "  to 
your  age,  practice  the  negative  wherever  possible  with 
individual  man.  There  is  a  charm  in  "no!"  and  a 
safety.  Say  it  on  every  chance  when  the  saying  does 
not  exclude  you  from  the  common  march.  Much  vir- 
tue in  "  no!  "  It  avoids  drink,  it  saves  money,  it  makes 
for  good  repute,  declines  disgrace,  and  cultivates  re- 
spect. And  it  multiplies  the  worth  of  "yes!"  when 
you  utter  it. 

Eichard  Croker  will  dissemble  like  a  Greek.  Yet 
one  should  understand:  He  is  true  to  his  friends  and  to 
his  cause;  he  moves  without  treachery,  harbors  no  trea- 
son; and  his  given  word  is  gold.  But  he  will  cloak  his 
plan,  and  bury  his  thought,  and  hide  his  facts,  even 


90  RICHARD  CROKER. 

from  his  friends;  and  all  to  the  end  that  final  victory 
heir  no  peril.  • 

"Justice  is  the  interest  of  the  stronger,"  said 
Thrasymachus;  and  while  Socrates  defeated  him  in  the 
colloquy,  the  apothegm  of  our  Greek  has  won  the 
practical  acceptance  of  mankind.  "  Justice  is  the 
interest  of  the  stronger,"  and  mendacity  is  the  natural 
sentinel  of  interest.  Plato  would  have  refused  this  in 
the  day  of  his  Academy;  Sir  Thomas  More  would  have 
excluded  it  from  his  Utopia.  But  More  was  no  pilot, 
and  made  but  half  a  voyage.  At  first  he  sailed  bravely, 
and  was  enough  seaman  of  policy  to  succeed  Wolsey  as 
Chancellor.  But  the  storms  came,  and  his  sailorship 
broke  down;  he  crashed  on  the  reefs  of  the  Tower,  and 
the  ax  got  the  head  that  had  ceased  to  serve  its  mas- 
ter's turn. 

And  do  you  object  to  mendacity?  Do  you  favor 
civilization?  You  told  me  a  few  chapters  to  the 
rear  that  you  did,  and  belabored  me  with  hard  words 
because  I  appealed  against  it.  Do  you  favor  civili- 
zation? Why,  then,  it  is  moored  and  held  by  the 
lies  we  tell.  We  have  scaled  the  bluff  ages  with  ladders 
of  lies.  Lies!  they  have  been  our  race's  best  weapon  of 
offense.  As  for  defense,  why,  lies  are  our  citadel!  If 
New  York  were  to  tell  herself  the  truth  for  ten 
minutes,  solitude  and  silence  and  desertion  would 
sweep  and  swim  the  streets  like  a  blight.  And  at  the 
crisis  where  his  lunatic,  general  veracity,  trod  the 
lips  and  seized  the  ears  of  folk,  historians  would  close 
their  chapters.  They  would  begin  the  next  ominously 
and  with  darkling  caption:  "  The  Last  Days  of  New 
York." 

Within  limits  of  interest,  personal  to  one's  self.,  the 


L_ 


JOHN  KELLY. 


VOLTAIRE,    THE  EXCELLENT.  91 

right  to  lie  is  perfect.  "  When  telling  a  lie  will  be 
profitable,  let  it  be  told/'  wrote  Herodotus.  There  is 
property  in  a  thought,  a  plan,  or  a  fact.  One  has  no 
more  right  to  search  your  head  than  to  search  your 
pocket.  One  has  no  more  title  to  your  knowledge 
or  your  programme,  than  to  your  money  or  your 
watch.  You  may  as  properly  prevent  his  larceny  of 
the  one  as  of  the  other.  When  silence  is  no  disguise, 
or  spells  discovery, — and  query  may  be  framed  to  such 
a  sequence, — mask  your  plan  with  mendacity,  hide  your 
knowledge  in  a  cloud  of  lies. 

There  was  Voltaire, — I've  ever  admired  him, — an 
artist  of  untruth.  True!  Voltaire  got  into  the  Bastille; 
but  he  got  out  again.  Voltaire  lived  success.  He  duped 
those  who  would  have  cozened  and  used  him;  he  spoiled 
the  Egyptian,  and  was  enriched;  in  a  day  of  fetters  he 
was  free;  in  an  era  of  strictest  censorship,  and  when  a 
press  was  bridled,  he  wrote  and  printed  as  he  pleased; 
he  met  his  friends,  he  missed  his  enemies,  and  was  at 
ease  while  others  sweated  and  wrestled;  he  lived  with 
undimmed  faculty  to  the  age  of  eighty-four,  and  died 
generally  honored  because  generally  denounced.  What 
more  of  value  may  one  find  in  life?  Take  my  rede  for 
it:  he  who  may  lock  a  door  may  lie;  the  right  in  the  one 
is  the  right  in  the  other. 

Croker  is  expert  of  the  mask;  he  can  feign  a  feel- 
ing or  pretend  a  thought.  And  he  does  both  when 
dealing  with  his  unfriends.  He  calculates  coldly,  and 
never  permits  feud  nor  a  knowledge  of  another's  trea- 
son, in  esse  or  accomplished,  to  prevent  his  use  of  that 
man.  He  will  plow  with  the  heifer  of  his  foe — aye! 
with  the  foe  himself,  while  the  plowing  plows  a  profit. 
He  will  meet  folk  whom  he  knows  to  be  false;  beam  on 


92  RICHARD  CROKER. 

them  with  bland  interest,  appear  to  give  them  his  con- 
fidence, and  to  rely  on  their  loyalty  as  a  main  support; 
he  will  assign  them  their  tasks,  and  let  the  nose  of  ex- 
pectation sniff  reward;  he  will  turn  his  back  on  them 
as  one  who  is  sure  of  their  white  truth,  and  walk  away 
the  picture  of  unconscious  openness.  It  seems  a  sinful 
and  a  devil's  deed  to  betray  a  soul  so  defenselessly 
childlike  and  trusting.  Be  not  aroused.  Those  false 
ones  have  been  deluded;  they  are  in  invisible  irons,  and 
always  in  sight.  It  is  as  double  odds  they  carry  forth 
the  Croker  plan;  it  is  certain  they  will  do  no  harm. 
There  are  thousands  who  went  forth  to  shear  Croker, 
and  returned  shorn. 

Of  the  multitude  to  make  up  Tammany  Hall,  there 
are  hundreds  who  come  within  the  close  and  per- 
sonal radius  of  Croker.  And  there  are  other  hundreds, 
not  specifically  of  Tammany  Hall,  who,  for  office,  or 
some  contract  or  franchise-preference  of  the  town,  are 
found  to  join  these.  It  is  a  court;  and  our  applicants 
of  favor  become  courtiers  of  Croker.  Eighty  per 
cent,  of  these  come  not  for  Croker,  nor  Tammany 
Hall,  nor  party  betterment;  they  come  for  themselves. 
And  they  fawn  and  they  flatter;  and  they  fish  for  those 
trouts  of  office,  or  contract,  or  franchise,  which  brought 
them  to  this  pool  of  the  profitable. 

And  in  their  midst  is  Croker;  smooth,  silent,  blandly 
ignorant  of  design  on  the  part  of  anyone,  and  as  though 
plot  were  preposterous  as  an  idea;  believing  every  lie, 
gulping  every  compliment  like  spring- water;  the  most 
fooled  and  cheated  creature  beneath  the  stars — appar- 
ently. But  appearances  waylay  the  fact.  There  isn't 
one  about  him  whose  measure  for  better  or  worse  is  not 
within  the  archives  of  his  thought;  no  one  he  doesn't 


AN  ADEPT  OF  CHICANE.  03 

apprehend  in  his  last  true  detail.  Not  a  word  does  one 
utter  that  isn't  instantly  tried  by  the  acid  of  what  he 
knows;  and  this  last  is  a  term  to  cover  the  marvelous. 
In  short  it's  a  game — the  game  of  politics;  and 
Croker  defeats  these  folk;  and  turns  them,  and  twists 
them,  and  takes  them  in,  and  moves  them  about,  and  in 
all  things  does  with  them  what  one,  expert,  might  do 
with  children  at  a  hand  of  cards.  Croker  knows  these 
folk  as  he  knows  his  way  to  bed;  he  knows  what  is  in 
them  as  he  knows  the  contents  of  his  pocket;  from  be- 
ginning to  end  he  uses  them  with  the  same  cool,  steady 
cunning  wherewith  a  mechanic  uses  tools. 

At  that  play  where  man  meets  man,  and  one  is  to  be 
ridden  and  the  other  ride,  Croker  is  the  adept  ineffable 
and  not  to  be  expressed.  He  ever  rides;  and  in  his 
day  has  cinched  his  saddle  on  all  sorts,  from  presidents 
and  governors — men  of  nation,  men  of  State  and  town 
— down  to  that  least  atom  of  power,  the  man  of  one 
vote  who  blackens  boots  or  sweeps  the  crossing  of  a 
street. 

Once,  on  the  evening  of  a  reception  to  Croker, 
when  hundreds  thronged  the  Democratic  Club, 
among  them  men  of  money  and  others  who  had  filled 
the  highest  places  of  state,  and  all  beamingly,  bowingly, 
scrapingly  gracious  to  the  "  Chief,"  to  a  point  that 
might  sicken  self-respect,  Croker  said  to  me: 

"  Of  course  one  must  understand  these  people. 
They  are  here  for  their  interest,  and  to  gain  their 
points.  Many  of  them  would  leave  the  party,  and 
assail  me,  the  moment  it  served  their  turns.  Three  of 
five  who  are  here  would  do  both.  The  others  you 
could  bank  on,  fair  weather  or  foul — you  could  go  to 
war  and  depend  on  them.  They  have  principles," 


94  RICHARD  CROKER. 

But  if  Kichard  Croker  can  be  suave,  veil  his  esti- 
mates of  folk,  and  deceive  Deceit,  he  can  be  blunt 
enough  at  times.  It  depends  on  the  when,  and  the 
where,  and  the  who.  Craft  is  with  Croker  artificial; 
or,  if  it's  his  nature,  then  it's  his  second  nature.  His 
first  is  to  be  frank  and  open  and  boldly  obvious.  There 
was  an  editor  and  owner  of  a  paper  of  power  and  daily 
warrant.  Also  the  editor  was  personally  drunken, 
treacherous,  and  noisily  vulgar — precisely  the  sort  to 
have  Croker's  contempt,  arouse  his  antipathy,  rasp  his 
sensibility,  and  nurse  his  disgust.  It  was  in  the  sharp 
midst  of  a  campaign.  One  would  suppose  it  no 
moment  when  Croker  would  lose  a  friend  or  make  a 
rebel.  The  editor — rather  sober  for  him,  he  was — ap- 
proached Croker  with  a  leer  of  amiability.  Croker 
met  him  with  an  eye  of  frost. 

"  Why  is  it,  Mr.  Croker/'  said  the  editor,  in  tones 
husky  with  dead  rum,  but  friendly,  "why  is  it  you 
never  gave  me  your  confidence?  " 

"  You  would  be  a  good  man  to  give  my  confidence 
to,"  said  Croker,  "  if  I  wanted  never  to  see  it  again." 
Then  proceeding  to  direct  reply,  he  went  on:  "  I'll  tell 
you  why  I  don't  give  you  my  confidence  and  why  I 
never  will;  it's  because  you're  dishonest,  and  can't  be 
trusted.  Then  again,  you're  a  coward  and  will  run 
like  a  deer.  Your  word  and  your  courage  are  both 
bad." 

That  editor  made  feeble  expostulation,  and  couldn't 
understand.  Croker  recounted  his  maldeeds  of  trea- 
son, ingratitude,  and  broken  faith.  It  was  a  sad 
record;  true  in  every  word,  but  unpleasant  to  the  editor 
who  had  thus  provoked  a  sketch  of  his  career. 
Croker's  tones  had  a  chill  in  them,  too,  as  if  one  were 


THE  CHOKER  CONTRADICTIONS.  &5 

in  the  near  presence  of  an  iceberg  in  the  night.  The 
editor  made  stumbling  expedition  to  withdraw  to 
balmier  company. 

That  editor  was  a  millionaire;  and  his  paper  was  of 
an  import  of  politics  with  any  in  the  town.  Yet  Croker 
flung  his  aching  story  in  his  teeth,  as  if  he'd  been  the 
meanest  emigrant  last  landed.  And  the  reason?  Be- 
cause it  was  true  in  the  first  place;  and,  in  the  next,  its 
telling  could  do  no  harm.  If  the  effect  would  have  been 
to  turn  the  batteries  of  that  paper  against  next  day's 
Democracy,  Croker,  pro  tempore,  would  have  met  our 
drunken,  treason-mongering  vulgarian,  its  editor,  with 
a  mood  as  sweet  as  May.  But  he  knew  the  man.  He 
knew  his  avarice;  his  sodden  lack  of  self-respect. 
Aware  that  the  paper  supported  Democracy,  and  at- 
tended the  hunt,  a  mere  jackal  of  politics,  hopeful  of  an 
offal  prey,  some  tidbit  of  a  putrid  profit,  Croker  was 
equally  aware  that  no  insult  of  truth  would  inflame  it 
into  opposition.  It  would  remain  leal  to  its  appetite 
for  city  advertising,  and  therefore  leal  to  party;  in 
fact,  the  adherence  of  that  editor  would  be  rather 
strengthened  than  made  less,  when  taught  to  know 
that  his  vermin  length  and  breadth  and  depth  of  sordid 
purpose  were  entirely  arrived  at  and  understood. 

Eichard  Croker  knows  his  men,  and  finds  and 
matches  his  men;  corresponds  with  his  environment 
and  fits  it  to  him  like  a  coat;  accommodates  himself  to 
his  times,  as  Machiavelli  says  one  must;  dovetails  with 
events  as  they  transpire.  In  seeming  ever  frank,  he 
is  as  close-locked  as  the  grave;  apparently  a  reed  for 
graceful  pliancy,  he  is  as  bendless  as  the  oak;  never 
hearing,  he  is  all  ears;  never  seeing,  he  owns  the  eyes  of 
Argus;  never  knowing,  he  has  the  story  of  every  man 


06  RIOHARD  CHOKER. 

and  fact  at  finger's  end;  innocent,  he  is  a  fox  for  policy; 
timid,  he  is  as  formidable  as  a  bear;  slow,  he  is  as  swift 
to  smite  as  a  bolt  from  above;  hesitating,  he  is  as 
prompt  as  a  flash-light;  careless,  he  is  as  accurate  as 
a  rapier;  and  of  things,  for  things,  by  things  political 
he  is  never  when  nor  where  nor  what  one  anticipates. 
Also,  with  a  genius  to  be  military — doubtless  derived 
from  Cromwellian  fathers — no  matter  how  a  war  may 
roll,  Croker  is  ever  moving  and  pushing  towards  the 
high  ground.  His  secret  of  mastership,  when  one  has 
added  the  rest,  would  seem  to  lie  in  that  thought  of 
Machiavelli  of  a  profound  talent  of  "  accommodation 
and  correspondence  with  his  times." 


VIII. 

MORE    SUBSIDIARY    COIN". 

"  O  wow  ! "  quo'  he :  were  I  as  free, 
As  first  when  I  saw  this  countrie. 
How  blythe  and  merrie  I  wad  bee, 
And  I  wad  nevir  think  lang." 

—  The  Gdberlunzie  Man. 

OUR  last  chapter  was  provoked  by  a  coiner  with  a 
question.  It  is  to  be  hoped  there  is  none  other  eaten 
of  a  misfit  curiosity  to  follow  him  and  his  inquisitive 
example.  Were  there  a  procession  of  such,  this  work 
might  become  for  length  another  Burton's  "  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,"  and  dolefully  laden  of  six  hundred 
thousand  words.  How  our  old  Oxonian  must  have 
moiled  and  wrought  and  burned  wax!  No  marvel  he 
was  glum!  Surely,  his  weary  tomes  grew  with  the 
gloom  they  fed  on. 

Richard  Croker,  when  meeting  men  of  assured  posi- 
tion, political,  social,  or  financial,  brings  to  his  counte- 
nance a  deal  of  dignity  and  reserve.  There  is  courtesy; 
but  nothing  of  impulsive  affability.  Croker  never 
flatters;  by  the  same  word!  a  flattery  of  Croker  is  a 
waste  of  time.  That  dulcet  commodity  has  polite 
reception, — if  a  mild  silence  may  be  thus  described, — 
but  its  sole  effect  is  to  disturb  distrust. 

When  Croker  encounters  folk  of  prominence  and 
rank,  whether  the  rrieeting  be  casual  or  of  purpose,  he 
clothes  himself  with  a  cool,  wholesome  urbanity,  which, 
conceding  nothing,  adventures  no  demands.  His  air  is 

97 


98  RICHARD  CttOKER. 

that  of  one  who,  certain  of  his  own  respect,  is  ready  to 
extend  respect  to  you.  It  is  to  Croker's  credit  that  the 
poorest  and  weakest,  and  folk  of  puniest  kind,  political 
and  otherwise,  may  find  him  with  a  quick  readiness  as 
encouraging  as  it  is  perfect.  There  are  no  fences  nor 
defenses  about  Croker.  All  who  have  wish  or  occasion 
to  meet^him  are  at  once  received.  And  the  weak  and 
the  poor,  and  those  in  the  fangs  of  some  distress,  have 
ever  the  better  reception.  Such  touch  Croker  nearly; 
they  recruit  to  their  aid  his  quickest  sympathy;  he 
brings  them  closer  to  him  than  any  who,  pompous,  safe, 
and  self-approved,  comes  with  hands  of  power  and 
brows  of  consequence. 

"  Yes/'  said  Croker,  on  a  day  when  his  habit  of  open- 
door  to  all  had  undergone  a  comment;  "  yes,  I  see  every- 
body. And  particularly  I  haven't  the  heart  to  turn 
these  poor  people  away.  They  squander  my  time,  and 
often  I  can  do  them  no  good.  But  they  don't  know 
these  things;  and  their  small  affairs  are  of  as  much 
interest  to  them  as  the  business  of  any  money  monarch 
is  to  him.  Were  I  driven  to  name  what  I  regard  as 
most  to  my  credit,  it  would  be  that,  during  the  sixteen 
years  I've  been  at  the  head  of  Tammany  Hall,  every 
man,  rich  or  poor,  small  or  great,  who  wanted  to  see 
me,  did  see  me,  and  was  listened  to.  And  when  I  could 
I  helped  him.  I  wouldn't  want  a  better  epitaph." 

That  sympathy  of  Croker  for  the  young  and  strug- 
gling is  never  far  to  call.  In  1897,  following  Tammany 
success,  Croker  was  at  Lakewood.  A  crowd  had  fol- 
lowed him;  with  others  were  representatives  of  a  score 
of  papers.  Among  these  was  a  boy  of  twenty;  bright, 
alert,  indefatigable.  Croker  observed  him.  One  day 
the  boy  told  Croker  that  his  ambition  was  to  study  law. 


THE  LAW  STUDENT.  99 

"Where  is  your  home?"  asked  Croker. 

Our  youth  replied  that  he  came  from  Buffalo;  that 
his  parents  were  dead;  and,  being  moneyless  and  with  a 
living  to  earn,  he  must  defer  his  law  studies  until  he 
had  hoarded  enough  to  keep  him  through  those  three 
years  of  law-reading  which  the  statutes  impose  on  the 
novice. 

"  How  much  does  your  paper  pay  you? "  asked 
Croker. 

"  Thirty  dollars  a  week." 

Croker  said  no  more.  A  few  days  later  one  of  the 
city's  chief  law  officers  notified  the  youth  that  he  had 
been  named  as  his — the  law  officer's — private  secretary 
with  a  salary  of  twenty-two  hundred  dollars  a  year,  a 
four-year  term,  and  a  chance  to  study  law. 

This  episode  made  an  impression  on  me.  Time  had 
carved  me  a  cynic.  I  was  old  in  politics,  and  full  of  a 
callous  experience  as  the  daily  critic  and  historian  of 
politicians.  It  was  the  first  deed  of  any  Christian  love- 
liness from  the  hand  of  politics  to  come  within  my  ken. 
Since  then  I've  known  Croker  to  "  throw  away,"  as  your 
case-hardened  party  man  might  say,  hundreds  of  places 
for  the  same  reason  of  goodness,  and  in  the  same  way. 
I  taunted  him  with  this  soft  excellence  of  heart;  he 
seemed  abashed. 

"That's  not  generosity,"  said  Croker  argumentatively; 
"it's  the  same  old  story  of  machine  politics,  only  it's 
reversed.  The  rule,  of  course,  is  that  a  man  must  earn 
his-  office  before  he  gets  it.  In  these  cases  I  gave 
the  boys  the  places  before  they  had  earned  them.  It 
makes  no  last  party  difference;  they  can  go  on  and 
work  for  the  party  now  in  return  for  their  offices. 
There  you  have  the  idea;  it  works  no  loss  to  the  Democ- 


100  RICHARD   CROKER. 

racy,  and  if  s  a  good  thing  for  the  boys."  And  at  that 
Croker  laughed  with  a  hearty  uneasiness  that  spoke  of 
bashful  fear  lest  one  might  deem  him  generous,  and  of 
a  warm,  soft  sympathy,  when  frozen  precedent  would 
have  him  hard  as  ice. 

Croker  is  tolerant  of  the  young,  and  will  forgive 
error  or  mistake  where  youth  and  inexperience  plead  in 
its  excuse.  This  tolerant  tenderness  doesn't  extend 
itself  in  any  wrong  action  of  an  oldling.  There  was 
an  Albany  crisis;  the  Democrats  of  the  Legislature  be- 
haved badly.  One  gray  senator  was  peculiarly  weighed 
in  the  balance  of  those  events,  and  found  wanting.  It 
was  a  week  later  when  he  met  Croker.  The  latter  re- 
garded the  derelict  with  a  brow  both  untoward  and 
bleak. 

"  You  did  nicely,"  observed  Croker,  yi  tones  none 
the  less  indurated  for  being  musically  low;  "  you  did 
nicely  up  at  Albany!  The  Eepublicans  made  you  look 
like  children.  You  would  have  done  as  well  if  you'd 
stayed  at  home." 

"What  could  I  do?"  asked  the  other  appealingly, 
spreading  his  hands. 

"  Why,  nothing,  of  course,"  replied  Croker.  "  I 
didn't  know  that  when  you  were  sent  there,  but  I  know 
it  now." 

It  was  the  death  sentence;  both  understood  it.  That 
"  statesman  "  did  not  go  back.  Yet  such  is  the  crush- 
ing force  of  Tammany  discipline  that  not  a  thought  of 
rebellion,  none  of  retort,  rose  in  the  breast  of  the  dis- 
rated one.  He  now  toils  cheerfully  in  the  party  ranks, 
without  office,  and  without  its  hope;  and  he  and  Croker 
meet  with  no  more  of  difference  than  they  felt 
before. 


THE  FOB  WITHIN.  101 

This  instance  is  a  specimen  brick  of  scores  on  scores 
just  like  it.  The  justice  of  the  situation  is  recognized 
by  both.  Tammany  Hall  in  its  essence  is  pure  mili- 
tary. When  a  man  fails,  a  man  forfeits;  none  may 
keep  a  place  who  is  too  weak  for  its  administration,  too 
unskillful  for  its  defense.  Croker  removes  the  man, 
and  it  occurs  neither  to  Croker  nor  the  one  removed 
that  there  are  to  be  resultant  heats,  heart-burnings, 
and  mutinies.  There  have  been  now  and  then  those  to 
prove  exceptions  to  this  law.  One  might  count  a  dozen 
such.  They,  as  a  rule,  were  names  rich,  young,  and  in 
the  van  of  leadership.  Each  deemed  himself  powerful 
and  contested  with  Croker  his  dictum  of  deposal.  One 
and  all  they  perished;  their  bones  whiten  on  the  hill- 
sides of  party. 

He  who  at  any  hour  is  head  of  Tammany  Hall  will 
not  alone  face  foe  without;  he  must  fend  against  per- 
sonal overthrow  by  forces  which  arise  within.  A  weak 
man  couldn't  last;  nor  one  unwise  nor  careless.  It  is 
not  that  in  the  surroundings  of  a  Tammany  chief  there 
lurks  uncommon  treachery;  it  is  due  to  the  natural  law 
that  the  strong  is  to  supplant  the  weak.  Whatever 
may  be  your  place  or  fortune,  you  who  read  this,  be 
assured  that  in  the  sweating  fret  and  jostle  of  exist- 
ence, where  Self  is  king  and  Appetite  is  statute,  there 
are  blind,  ambitious  thousands,  unknown  to  you  and  to 
whom  you  are  unknown,  striving  dumbly,  sightlessly, 
yet  none  the  less  jealously,  as  against  you,  to  seize 
them  both.  And  if  you  are  to  hold  your  place  and  for- 
tune as  against  them  and  their  Teachings,  it  must  and 
may  only  be  by  dint  of  superior  power,  whether  of  wit 
or  arm  or  position,  which  you  possess.  Such  is  the  law 
of  life.  Such  it  has  ever  been;  such  will  it  ever  be;  and 


102  RICHARD  CROKER. 

that,  too,  for  all  the  prayers  and  tears  and  curses  to 
find  sigh  or  fulmination  in  demand  of  its  repeal. 

Croker  guards  himself  against  overthrow  from  within 
by  limiting  the  possibility  of  power-growth  in  those 
about  him.  He  does  not  have  a  deputy-chief  to  repre- 
sent him;  he  has  four  or  five.  He  grants  to  no  one  sub- 
altern his  whole  countenance;  he  divides  and  sub- 
divides it  among  several.  Among  his  lieutenants  he 
splits  his  proxy,  and  arms  each  with  a  fragment  of 
his  authority.  Each  has  his  little  field  of  domination; 
each  his  work.  Add  them  together,  and  you  find  the 
boundaries  of  Crokerian  domain.  The  reason  given 
for  this  subdivision  is  a  labor-saving  one;  the  logic 
on  which  it  bears  runs  to  the  effect  that  work  is  better 
done  where  by  division  none  is  overworked.  The 
fact  occurs,  however,  of  safety  to  Croker's  leadership. 
By  virtue  of  this  system  of  cautious  allotment  of 
powers  in  small  parcels,  no  underling  becomes  over- 
important  or  unduly  tall.  Also  it  breeds  distrusts  and 
doubts  and  jealousies  among  Croker's  subcaptains  thus 
distinguished.  Each  watches  the  other;  and  while 
eager  to  promote  himself,  he  is  evenly  solicitous  to  curb 
and  cramp  whatever  of  a  personal-political  tendency  to 
bourgeon  the  others  may  exhibit.  These  four  or  five 
under-captains,  lacking  confidence  in  one  another,  are 
sure  to  be,  for  self-defensive  reasons,  in  moods  of  per- 
fect confidence  in  Croker  as  the  source  of  their  impor- 
tance. This  system,  excellent  enough  for  Tammany 
Hall,  is  perfect  for  Croker.  It  curtails  individual  fol- 
lowing, denies  concentration,  and  avoids  the  threat  of 
overgrowth  by  any  under  him. 

Croker  listens  to  slander;  listens  to  disbelieve  it. 
He  who  bears  ill  tales  to  Croker  makes  a  fool's  journey 


FRIENDSHIP  A  SPECIALTY.  103 

and  does  the  errand  of  a  fool.  He  but  rakes  the  pond 
for  the  moon;  he  will  take  nothing  by  his  effort. 
Croker  will  listen  in  chill  silence.  The  one  effect  of 
slander,  so  far  as  Croker  is  concerned,  is  the  injury  of 
the  vilifier;  and  not  infrequently  a  nearer  regard  for 
him  vilified. 

Croker  is  loyal  to  a  friend  to  the  point  desperate. 
There  was  a  journalist  on  terms  of  tepid  half -intimacy 
with  Croker.  He  resigned  from  the  paper  whereon 
he  had  been  engaged.  Two  weeks  later  Croker  returned 
from  England.  A  covey  of  folk,  leading  figures  of 
Tammany  Hall,  were  on  the  dock  as  Croker  came  down 
the  gang  plank.  One  of  the  "  editors  "  of  that  paper — 
a  mere  reporter  not  being  held  of  metal  heavy  enough 
for  the  enterprise — approached  Croker.  The  State 
campaign  was  at  hand;  the  "  editor  "  was  cockily  confi- 
dent of  Croker's  quick  and  bowing  complaisance. 

"  I  want  to  interview  you,  Mr.  Croker,"  he  said, 
"  on  the  matter  of  your  plans  for  the  campaign  at 
hand." 

"  If  I'm  to  be  interviewed,"  replied  Croker,  "  I  would 
prefer  that  Adams  write  it." 

"Adams  is  no  longer  with  the  paper,"  said  the 
"  editor  "  coldly;  "  if  you  were  to  give  him  an  inter- 
view, he  wouldn't  run  it  in  our  columns.  It's  for  that 
cause  I  came  to  talk  with  you  myself." 

"  Still,"  returned  Croker,  who  felt  the  point  of  loyalty 
to  a  friend  at  stake,  "  I  should  not  care  to  be  inter- 
viewed save  by  Adams." 

"  Then,"  retorted  the  "  editor,"  with  a  spirit  for  the 
haught  and  asperous,  "I  am  commissioned  to  inform 
you  that  the  paper  and  Adams  are  not  on  good  terms. 
You  must  make  your  choice  between  the  friendship  of 


104  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

Adams  and  that  of  the  paper  I  represent.  You  can't 
have  both." 

"That's  discouraging,"  observed  Croker,  and  his 
tones  were  pregnant  of  a  sneer.  "  Since  your  paper 
finds  it  necessary  to  put  the  case  in  that  way,  you  may 
return  and  say  that  it  took  me  ten  seconds  to  decide; 
tell  the  paper  I'll  take  Adams." 

Those  who,  regarding  Croker  in  his  character  of 
a  calculating  general,  would  deem  him  weak  in  thus 
casting  aside  the  support  of  a  powerful  journal  on  the 
eve  of  battle,  and  all  for  a  sentimental  favoritism  for 
one  who  could  at  best  but  render  little  service,  would 
reason  with  much  of  shallowness.  There  were  two  argu- 
ments to  lift  up  their  voices  with  Croker.  'His  under- 
chiefs,  full  five-score,  were  looking  on.  He  would  not 
furnish  them  the  weakening  exhibition  on  his  part  of 
sacrificing  friendship  to  fear — of  being  forced  into  dis- 
loyalty to  a  friend  by  the  threat  of  power.  His 
"  leaders,"  observing,  would  say  nothing;  but  it  would 
unsettle  their  ideals  of  him  and  shake  his  status. 
Again  Croker  reflected:  "  If  I  yield  to  this  paper  in  its 
attempt  to  bully,  it  will  despise  me.  Moreover,  find- 
ing me  weak,  it  will  be  back  to-morrow  with  another 
demand,  and  another  threat.  On  the  contrary,  if  I 
stand  rocklike  by  my  friend,  this  paper  will  respect  me. 
It  will  say, '  His  friendship  is  worth  having;  no  pressure 
can  break  down  his  loyalty  and  force  him  to  set  his 
obligations  at  naught.'  That  very  paper  will  be  my 
better  friend  in  the  end."  And  with  the  last  word 
Croker  was  wise  and  right.  It  was  one  of  those  occa- 
sional coils  when  the  proverb,  "  Honesty  is  the  best 
policy,"  obtained. 

Croker  is  by  nature  one  irritable,  nervous,  and  with 


VENGEANCE  A    VIRTUE.  105 

sensibilities  fine  as  silk;  also,  he  is  of  the  tiger's  temper. 
Yet  to  the  eye  of  most  regardful  inquiry  Croker  would 
seem  indifferent,  phlegmatic,  and  of  an  epidermis  the 
thickness  whereof  might  challenge  the  envy  of  ele- 
phants. His  temper  is  there,  however,  albeit  absolutely 
within  hand.  Cool  he  is,  but  never  cold;  and  his  hates, 
like  his  friendships,  are  fire-fed.  Croker  conquered 
himself  early;  he  has  held  himself  in  subjection 
ever  since.  One,  misled  by  a  surface  placidity,  might 
disbelieve  in  the  existence  of  Croker's  capacity  for 
wrath.  Those  who  are  most  with  him  gain  ever  and 
again  a  flash  which  plays  on  his  face  like  sheet-light- 
ning, and  then  is  gone.  As  a  friend  once  said:  "  Those 
who  believe  Croker  has  no  temper  might  better  lift  one 
of  his  griddles." 

But  as  related,  Croker  has  conquered  himself.  No 
man  has  yet  beheld  the  least  slant  of  rage  from  Croker. 
He  is  calm,  tolerant,  conservative,  and  was  never 
called  nor  driven  to  say  corrosive  word  of  any.  Croker 
will  speak  well  of  his  most  hateful  foe,  or  steep  himself 
in  silence.  This  serenity  of  tone  and  word  and  thought 
with  Croker  has  a  threefold  cause.  It  grows  from  his 
policy,  his  religion,  and  his  self-respect.  Croker  by 
nature  is  revengeful,  but  he  has  broken  the  teeth  of 
that  taste.  He  has  now  no  quality  of  vengeance  in 
what  he  does;  he  will  follow  a  foe  no  further  than  the 
gates  of  victory.  His  friendships  and  gratitudes  have 
blossoms;  his  vengeances  lie  fallow  and  barren. 

Croker  will  take  from  folk  of  meek  pretense  en- 
comium for  this  defeat  of  his  temper  for  reprisal  and 
vengeful  retaliation.  In  truth,  it  comes  to  be  a  weak- 
ness. It  is  unnatural,  and  the  unnatural  is  ever  weak 
and  ever  wrong.  Vengeance  is  twin  brother  to  grati- 


106  RICHARD  CROKER. 

tude;  that  same  mother  of  infinite  order  and  an  equal 
justice  bore  them  both.  Does  a  man  do  you  a  deed  of 
good?  your  warm  gratitude  is  out  of  breath  with 
eagerness  to  make  return.  That  is  because  you  recog- 
nize a  debt — an  obligation.  By  virtue  of  that  great 
natural  law  of  poise  and  counterpoise,  and  which  every- 
where demands  an  equilibrium,  you  feel  the  claim  of 
good  for  good.  By  that  same  argument  you  shall  and 
should  retort  harm  with  harm,  and  with  injury  pay 
your  debts  of  injury. 

It's  all  of  a  like,  and  the  terms  good  and  bad — as 
those  others,  heat  and  cold — are  but  different  names 
for  the  same  thing.  Gratitude  and  vengeance  are 
identical  as  an  instinct  of  repayment.  Also,  in  nature, 
neither  is  discovered  without  its  fellow.  Meet  him 
with  strength  to  be  grateful,  and  you  will  have  met  one 
at  whom  it  is  perilous  to  launch  a  wrong.  Also,  ven- 
geance is  deterrent  and  goes  to  extinguish  the  general 
flame  of  ill.  Your  sheriff  is  naught  save  a  public 
avenger;  and  if,  for  wrong  done,  the  retaliation  of  the 
individual  be  evil,  then  your  statutes  against  crime  are 
but  so  much  legislative  sin.  That  blade  of  criticism 
which  hamstrings  one  will  hamstring  both. 

Croker  doesn't  believe  that  doctrine,  and  with  him 
justice  and  mercy  mean  the  same  thing.  That  one 
who  in  the  courts  of  his  resentment  is  convicted  of  in- 
juring him  most,  suffers  no  harsher  sentence  from 
Croker  than  the  loss  of  his  aid.  A  refusal  to  help  is 
Croker's  maximum  punishment;  and  that,  too,  though 
the  malefactor  had  sought  his  life.  This  last  is  not  a 
figure,  but  a  fact;  and  there  be  those  to  walk  the 
streets  in  proof  of  it. 

Once  Croker  talked  of  the  follies  of  rage.    "One 


THE  TAMMANY  HALL  PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD  CROKER. 


STEAD'S  INTERVIEW.  107 

should  never  fail  to  control  one's  temper,"  said  he; 
"  I've  done  that  from  the  first.  No  man  ever  saw  me 
angry.  And  the  reason  lies  in  the  fact  that  anger,  on 
your  part,  weakens  you  and  strengthens  your  enemy. 
Coolness  is  a  weapon,  and  you  lose  that  weapon  when 
you  lose  your  temper.  And  there's  a  peril  in  wrath. 
If  a  man  gets  angry,  his  enemy  can  trap  him  into  a 
fight  when  he  isn't  ready.  You  give  your  foe  an  ad- 
vantage. You  fight  him  when  he  is  ready  and  when 
you  are  not — if  you're  angry.  This  is  wrong.  Make  it 
a  point  to  fight  when  you  are  ready,  and  when  your 
enemy  is  not  ready.  That  is  the  A  B  C  of  victory. 
You  have  learned  the  alphabet  of  contest  when  you 
have  learned  to  avoid  wrath." 

In  this  connection  it  seems  well  to  insert  a  printed 
conversation  between  Croker  and  the  English  editor 
Stead.  One  will  gain  from  it  a  double  thought.  It 
will  tell  a  story  of  Croker's  philosophy,  and  glance  also 
on  his  book-attainments,  concerning  which  last  there  is 
so  much  of  a  malevolent  untruth  to  be  gadding  about. 

"  Mendacity!  "  cry  you.  "  But  it  was  only  a  chapter 
ago  when  you  asserted  the  right  to  tell  a  lie!  " 

So  I  did,  0  reader!  and  you  do  well  to  pick  me  up. 
But  nowhere  do  I  advance  a  reason  for  believing  one. 
The  right  to  lie  at  times  and  under  given  conditions  is 
perfect,  as  I  said;  but  the  duty  of  disbelief  is  equally 
perfect,  with  no  relieving  exceptions. 

Stead  was  in  converse  with  Croker,  and  printed  the 
result  in  the  London  magazine  of  which  the  former  is 
the  publisher.  The  article  from  which  the  excerpts  be- 
low are  taken  appeared  in  the  issue  of  the  Review  of  Re- 
views for  October,  1897.  No  one  will  claim  for  Stead  a 
better  honesty  than  belongs  with  any  common  man;  but 


108  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

it  is  not  an  extravagance  to  assume  that  from  Stead, 
who  is  an  Englishman,  and  with  only  a  visiting  interest 
in  this  country  and  its  politics,  one  would  be  as  apt  to 
gain  a  truth  concerning  Croker  as  from  confessed  foes, 
made  doubly  rabid  by  wrath  and  a  vulture-hunger  for 
office  which  burns  unappeased  because  of  him.  This 
is  from  the  Review: 

" '  Tammany  Hall,'  Croker  began,  '  is  much  spoken 
against;  but  unjustly.  You  will  never  understand 
anything  about  New  York  politics  if  you  believe  all 
that  they  [the  public  press]  write  in  the  papers.  They 
are  ever  abusing  Tammany.  But  the  truth  is  just  the 
opposite  of  what  they  say.  Tammany's  reputation  has 
been  sacrificed  by  newspaper  men  whose  sole  desire  is 
to  increase  their  circulation.  They  appeal  to  the  pub- 
lic's itch  for  change  and  a  malignant  delight  in  the 
misfortunes  of  our  fellows.' 

"  *  Do  you  think  the  world  is  built  in  exactly  that 
way? '  I  asked. 

"  '  No,'  he  replied  with  emphasis, '  it  is  not  built  that 
way,  but  quite  another  way.  These  things  I  speak  of 
are  temporary;  the  permanent  law  of  the  world  and 
humanity  is  quite  different.  You  asked  me  how  it 
came  that  Tammany  was  overthrown  three  years  ago, 
and  I  have  told  you.  But  the  issue  of  an  election  is 
but  an  incident.  The  law  that  governs  has  exceptions. 
The  exception  proves  the  rule.' 

"  '  And  what  is  the  rule? '  I  asked,  somewhat  curious 
to  know  the  *  Boss's  '  theory  of  the  universe.  '  What 
is  the  underlying  fundamental  law  of  the  universe? ' 

"  *  Sir,'  said  Croker,  speaking  with  quiet  gravity, 
'  the  law  is  that,  although  wrongdoing  may  endure  for 
a  season,  right  must,  in  the  long  run,  come  to  the  top. 


CALUMNY  IS  MORTAL.  109 

Human  nature  is  not  built  so  that  roguery  can  last. 
Honest  men  must  come  to  their  own,  no  matter  what 
the  odds  against  them.  There  is  nothing  surer  than 
that.  Calumny  and  thieving  may  have  their  day,  but 
they  will  pass.  Nothing  can  last  but  truth.' 

"'Really,'  I  exclaimed,  'what  an  optimist  you  are! 
I  have  not  found  so  great  a  faith, — no  not  in  Israel,' 
I  added,  laughing. 

"'That's  right,'  Croker  replied.  'If  you  put  ten 
honest  men  into  an  assembly  with  ninety  thieves,  hu- 
man nature  is  such  that  the  ten  honest  men  will  con- 
trol the  ninety  thieves.  They  must  do  it.  It  is  the 
law  of  the  world.  Evil  by  its  nature  cannot  last. 
"  Honest "  John  Kelly,  who  was  leader  before  me,' 
continued  Croker,  '  used  to  tell  me,  "  Never  mind  the 
odds  against  you,  if  you  are  in  the  right.  Being  in  the 
right  is  more  than  odds.  Keep  on  hammering  away, 
and  you  are  sure  to  win!  " 

Boswell  had  an  easy  task.  Johnson  would  talk. 
His  Scotch  life-writer  had  but  to  smite  the  rock  of 
Johnson's  vanity  with  the  rod  of  query,  and  a  cataract 
of  epigram  poured  forth.  Sometimes  it  ran  low  in  wit, 
and  again  in  wisdom;  but  it  was  ever  flowing,  pompous, 
oracular,  making  up  with  sound  what  it  wanted  of 
sense,  and  in  all  chance  giving  Boswell  something  to 
write.  Now  Croker  never  says  much;  his  ears  have  one 
hundred  labors  where  his  tongue  has  one;  he  is  indeed 
silent  and  over-wordless.  Yet  is  that  nothing  won- 
derful. Johnson  was,  when  he  talked  politics, 
which  was  two-thirds  of  the  time,  a  theorist;  Croker  is 
the  practice.  Theory  is  a  talker;  Practice  was  born  a 
mute.  Croker  does  not  say  political  epigrams;  he  does 
them. 


110  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Bemarkable  about  Croker  is  a  presence  or  atmosphere 
not  readily  defined  nor  analyzed.  It  is  sinister  in 
the  sense  of  the  occult.  Croker  takes  natural  command 
of  men,  who  as  naturally  obey.  Call  it  magnetism  or 
magic,  if  you  will;  the  attribute  here  talked  of  belongs 
with  certain  folk.  One  might  have  beheld  the  same 
thing  in  the  instances  of  Cleveland,  of  Ingersoll,  of 
Reed;  for  lack  of  a  term  one  might  call  it  the  hypnotism 
of  beef.  Assuredly  it  comes  not  alone  of  the  mind; 
some  of  the  wisest  are  without  it. 

Croker  has  this  virtue  to  compel;  others  yield  to  him. 
I  was  about,  as  a  wonder-instance  of  this  power  in 
Croker,  to  cite  his  personal  over-running  of  Hill  on 
those  three  or  four  occasions  when  the  exigencies  of 
politics  brought  them  face  to  face.  But  I  have  another 
thought  in  that  solution.  Croker,  during  locked-door 
conferences  of  party  leaders,  has  collided  with  Hill;  and 
the  latter  quailed  and  withered  and  turned  sear  as  the 
leaves  of  a  November's  beech.  It  was  no  vote  defeat, 
where  numbers  on  one  side  overpowered  numbers  on 
the  other.  Hill  gave  way  before  Croker  mentally,  obvi- 
ously, and  as  one  cowed;  and  he  who  could  think  as 
cleanly  clear  as  a  bowie's  edge,  and  talk  like  a  bowie's 
slash,  in  the  Senate,  fell  to  be  mentally  stampeded, 
and  to  mind-fumbling  and  word-blundering,  before  the 
eye  of  Croker. 

It  was  the  more  wonderful  because  none — not  the 
most  sapient  prophet  of  men — could  have  forestated 
the  phenomenon  from  those  estimates  of  the  two  he 
might  acquire  in  personal  talk  and  contact  with  them. 
These  incidents  of  Croker's  power,  and  Hill's  insta- 
bility when  made  to  meet  him,  were  as  much  a  cause 
of  amazement  to  ongazers  as  they  were  to  Hill.  How- 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  WIFELESS.  Ill 

ever,  as  stated,  I  account  not  the  said  shattering  of  our 
wifeless  egotist  of  Wolfert's  Roost  to  any  Croker  hyp- 
notism; I  incline  to  lay  it  to  his  unwedded  state.  It  is 
not  an  explicable  matter,  and  it  leaps  from  discovery 
rather  than  a  thought,  but  I'm  convinced  of  the  certain 
failure  of  the  wifeless  man.  Go  where  you  will  with 
those  who  have  success,  and  whether  you  search  among 
warriors,  or  statesmen,  or  workers  down  to  the  one  who 
labors  with  his  hands,  your  champion  will  fail  not  to 
have  a  wife.  Which  is  the  cart  and  which  the  horse 
elude  me  as  proposals;  whether  one  is  weak  because  he 
lacks  a  wife,  or  lacks  because  he's  weak,  I  cannot  tell. 
Sure  it  is,  however,  that  in  all  arenas  of  effort  the  wife- 
less man  is  weak. 

There  is  but  one  writer  to  doubt  this,  and  he  is  Sir 
Francis  Bacon.  In  his  Eighth  Essay  Bacon  relates 
that  marriages  "  are  impediments  to  great  enter- 
prises "  and  that  "  the  best  works  and  of  greatest  merit 
for  the  public  have  proceeded  from  the  unmarried." 
But  I  shrewdly  suspect  the  crafty  courtier  was  aiming 
a  back-handed  bouquet  at  the  Royal  Elizabeth;  a 
woman  who,  for  her  own  fame,  be  it  said,  should  have 
been  a  wife  full  twenty  times.  Bacon's  day — a  day 
when  the  Queen  he  complimented  by  such  delicious  in- 
direction made  Hatton  a  chancellor  because  he  could 
dance — was  not  a  time  for  sour  argument;  and  even 
Truth  must  then  be  heedful  that  its  beard  was 
trimmed,  its  clothes  splendid,  its  language  in  the  mold 
of  Lyly's  "Euphues,"  and  its  taste  degenerate  to  the 
sweetened  mush  of  Sidney's  "  Pembroke's  Arcadia." 
Speaking  of  Elizabeth's  court  purely,  it  was  an  age  of 
ear  and  eye,  rather  than  of  turgid,  irritating  wisdom; 
and  be  sure  the  Queen  would  have  held  it  ill  if  her 


112  RICHARD  CROKER. 

"  young  lord  keeper,"  as  she  styled  Bacon,  had  essayed 
on  that  point  of  marriage  other  than  he  did.  But  our 
truthless  philosopher — who  was  afterwards  to  take 
bribes  and  be  impeached — was  false  with  his  pen;  nor 
did  he  believe  his  own  written  words.  He  didn't  take  his 
own  medicine.  He  himself  will  have  a  wife,  and  weds 
an  alderman's  daughter  at  the  age  of  forty-five.  It's 
as  I  say:  read  where  you  will,  the  great  are  ever  double. 
Washington  was  married,  Napoleon  was  married, 
Cromwell  was  married — all  were  married.  There  was 
never  but  one  President  of  the  United  States  to  be  a 
bachelor.  That  was  James  Buchanan;  and  the  best 
thing  one  can  say  of  him  is,  he's  dead.  Even  Catherine 
of  Eussia  was  married,  and  began  her  career  by  mak- 
ing captive  her  husband.  Yes,  in  sooth!  I  can't  get 
away  from  the  thought  that  Hill  fell  before  Croker 
because  he  had  no  wife. 

But  to  continue  with  our  work:  Croker's  talent  of 
control,  whatever  its  cause  in  him,  doesn't  proceed 
from  capacity  of  perception  on  the  other's  part.  I've 
beheld  this  latter  tested;  and  the  man  violent  and 
blurred  of  drink  will  tamely  obey  the  quiet  word  of 
Croker. 

"  Chief  " — shouted  one  obstreperous  of  many  cups, 
at  the  same  time  zigzagging  up  to  the  Tammany  gen- 
eral— "  Chief,  I've  been  drinking  for  ten  hours;  I'm  so 
glad  you've  got  home." 

Croker  was  in  talk  with  folk  when  the  bibulous 
one  approached.  He  turned  with  half-cold  mildness. 

"You're  drunk,"  he  quietly  said,  "and  should  go 
home.  You  mustn't  talk  now;  go  straight  home." 

"  Chief,"  expostulated  the  stricken  one,  "  haven't  I 
always  been  true  to  you?  "  He  hadn't,  but  that  was 


BRAINS  IS  NOT  ENOUGH.  H3 

no  matter.  "  And  now  you  talk  to  me  like  that!  "he 
concluded.  "  Chief,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it!  " 

"  Go  home  now,"  replied  Croker  in  his  level  tones. 
"  I  don't  want  any  lectures." 

That  one  so  deeply  freighted  said  never  a  further 
word,  but,  issuing  deviously  forth,  fell  into  a  hansom 
and  drove  home.  Yet  he  was  a  man  of  violence;  he 
would  have  obeyed  no  other  voice;  a  platoon  of  police 
couldn't  have  worked  the  witchcraft  of  his  disappear- 
ance, nor  yet  the  later  miracle  of  that  cold-water  so- 
briety which  has  found  footing  with  him  since. 

While  one  is  unable  to  dig  up,  or  develop  in  words, 
those  elements  within  Croker  which  give  him  his  mas- 
tery, one  may  each  day  see  the  evidences  of  their  exist- 
ence cutting  the  waters  of  events  like  the  back-fin 
of  a  fish.  And  one  knows  they're  there.  Yet  one 
would  be  as  soon  baffled  should  one  attempt  the 
analysis  of  any  other  individual;  and  that,  too, 
whether  the  individual  were  failure  or  success.  There's 
more  to  make  a  victor,  whate'er  may  be  the  stage  of 
his  effort,  than  mere  brains.  Intelligence,  promoted  to 
its  utmost,  doesn't  serve  alone.  There  was  Carlisle, 
once  of  the  Cleveland  Cabinet.  Carlisle  was  among 
the  world's  best  thinking  machines,  but  that  was  all. 
With  a  genius  for  conclusion,  Carlisle  was  incapable  of 
conviction.  He  was  an  attorney  of  the  mental,  just  as 
there  are  attorneys  of  law;  he  could  produce  you  rea- 
son and  conclusion  by  the  multitude,  without  ability 
or  power  of  belief  in  one  of  them.  There  is  a  stub- 
born virtue  in  simple  belief;  many  a  bad  preacher  has 
saved  himself  to  interest,  touch,  and  convince  by  the 
sheer  fervency  of  that  integrity  of  what  he  said. 

There  is  more  needed  to  a  Pompey  than  sole  brains. 


114  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Were  I  made  to  prognosticate  the  future  of  a  man,  I 
would  first  put  my  ear  to  his  heart.  If  the  footfall  of 
his  life  was  steady,  firm,  and  strongly  true;  and  if  his 
stomach  walked  even  with  his  heart,  and  his  lungs  were 
abreast  the  other  two,  his  story  of  good  fortune  to  come 
would  be  four-fifths  assured.  My  question  would  be 
made  on  those  three  angles  before  ever  I  talk  ten 
words  with  him  or  studied  the  size  of  his  hat.  And 
yet,  in  the  end,  the  secret  sought  might  lie  in  tempera- 
ment. Under  that  caption  it  should  be  added  that 
Croker  has  one  of  those  temperaments  of  which  Hume 
was  thinking  when  he  wrote  that  they  were  "  prefer- 
able to  an  inheritance  of  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year." 

No;  there  is  no  mystery  to  be  equal  to  the  mystery  of 
a  man.  To  read  his  future,  or  explain  his  past,  or  ac- 
count for  his  present,  or  whatever  of  loss  or  profit  any 
of  them  may  show  or  promise,  one  must  push  the  search 
beyond  the  single  discovery  of  brains.  In  fact,  there 
have  been  experimentalists  of  men  to  laugh  at  that  one 
attribute  of  a  wisdom.  It  was  Frederick  the  Great 
who  said,  "  If  I  wanted  to  punish  a  province,  I  would 
have  it  governed  by  philosophers." 

Nor  can  you  tell  the  story  of  a  man  by  measuring  his 
education.  Books  are  like  firearms;  without  enrich- 
ing one's  native  strength,  they  serve  to  put  the  weak 
on  partial  footing  with  the  powerful.  One  too  weak  for 
towering  mental  efforts,  unable  at  a  crisis  to  evolve  an 
argument  or  make  a  right  decision,  may  still,  being  a 
scholar,  find  in  books  the  thought-out  and  ofttimes 
tested  counsel  of  the  very  wise  for  that  emergency 
which  scowls  upon  him.  And  that  is  the  most  of  edu- 
cation in  any  strengthening  effect. 

But  one  might  as  well  surrender.     As  I've  already 


A  SMALL  SHIPWRECK.  US 

confessed  many  times  and  again  when  driven  to  turn  in 
the  business,  there  is  no  saying  in  words  that  one,  or 
those  fifty  elements  within  Croker,  which,  being  him, 
yield  to  him  his  baton.  One  might  repeat  for  the  third 
time,  and  it  would  seem  to  mark  the  verge  of  possible 
explanation,  that  Croker  makes  daily  stipulation  with 
himself  to  keep  in  "  accommodation  and  correspond- 
ence with  his  times." 

There  is  one  more  story  to  tell,  and  that  will  serve  as 
a  postern  to  this  chapter  through  which  we  may  pass  to 
the  next.  It  is  but  a  little  tale;  yet  it  speaks  eloquently 
of  two  matters:  the  sensibilities  of  the  ones  involved, 
and  the  hardy  gayety  of  Croker  in  the  teeth  of  danger. 

"Is  Croker  given  to  humor?"  said  John  Scannell, 
repeating  the  question  put  by  one  of  several  gentlemen 
who  were  discussing  the  characteristics  of  the  Tam- 
many chief;  "  that  depends.  Ordinarily  not;  but  I've 
seen  him  face  great  peril  several  times,  and  it  always 
seemed  to  arouse  a  spirit  for  fun  in  him.  Perhaps, 
however,  it  was  only  his  way  of  trying  to  encourage 
others.  I  remember  thirty  years  ago,  when  Croker 
and  I  clubbed  our  small  capital  and  decided  to  celebrate 
the  Fourth  of  July  with  a  sail  on  the  Sound.  We  hired 
a  sloop-rigged  affair  and,  although  not  as  good  sailors 
as  I've  seen,  we  got  along  happily  for  about  two 
hours.  We  were  off  City  Island  when,  as  if  from  am- 
bush, a  squall  struck  us  broadside  on,  and  there  we 
were  a  capsized,  total  wreck  in  a  moment.  Richard  and 
I  were  clinging  desperately  to  the  keel  of  the  boat;  the 
seas  were  washing  over  us  and  threatening  to  carry  us 
away.  Of  course  he  could  swim  like  a  Newfound- 
land dog,  and  may  not,  for  that  reason,  have  felt  the 
jaws  of  that  awful  fear  that  worried  me.  As  far  as 


116  RICHARD  CROKER. 

I  was  concerned,  however,  I  thought  the  end  had  come 
and  death  was  certain.  I  started  to  pray;  as  being  the 
usual,  decent  way  of  ending  one's  career.  I  was  praying 
aloud,  and  probably  with  much  earnestness,  for  Rich- 
ard heard  me,  even  through  the  howls  of  the  storm. 

" '  What  are  you  doing,  John? '  he  asked. 

"  '  I'm  praying/  I  said. 

"  Richard  inched  along  the  keel  towards  me  to  grab 
me,  if  he  noticed  any  symptoms  on  my  part  of  letting 
go;  at  the  same  time  I  could  see  a  gay  smile  on  his  wet, 
storm-whipped  face. 

"' Praying,  eh?'  he  said  cheerfully.  'Why  don't 
you  wait  till  we  get  ashore? ' " 

It  was  a  day  or  two  later  when  I  retold  the  story  to 
Croker.  He  looked  a  bit  serious;  then  he  said  simply: 
"  There's  one  part  John  doesn't  tell;  I'd  have  drowned 
that  day,  save  for  him.  When  the  sloop  capsized  I  was 
to  leeward  of  the  mast.  I  was  caught  in  the  ropes, 
buried  five  feet  under  water,  and  held  there.  My 
ability  to  swim  was  of  no  use;  I  was  there  in  a  tangle 
and  couldn't  get  out.  I  never  knew  how  John  did  it, 
for  I  was  senseless;  but  he  came  down  after  me  and 
stayed  till  he  brought  me  up.  He  was  going  to  get  me 
or  go  with  me,  he  told  me  afterward.  As  it  stood,  I 
was  fairly  drowned,  and  John  had  to  hold  both  of  us 
on  the  keel  of  the  sloop  for  fifteen  minutes  before  I 
was  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  We  had  been  out  there 
an  hour  or  more  when  we  were  taken  off.  John's  story 
is  all  right;  but  what  he  told  happened  towards  the  last 
of  our  stay,  when  my  wits  and  my  strength  had  come 
back.  The  part  that  he  didn't  tell  is  the  part  where  he 
saved  my  life.  Well! "  concluded  Croker  as  he  lapsed 
into  thought,  "  there's  only  one  John  Scannell! " 


IX. 


SOME    CHURCH    THOUGHTS. 

I  fear  the  devil  worst  when  gown  or  cassock, 
Or,  in  the  lack  of  them,  old  Calvin's  cloak 
Conceals  his  cloven  hoof. 

— Anonymous. 

OUR  three  chapters  in  immediate  precedence  to  this 
in  sort  surprise  the  march  of  steady  narrative  and 
shatter  it.  They  have,  however,  a  destiny.  They  are 
meant,  in  their  relation  of  half-grown  anecdote  and 
matters  trivial,  to  give  one  that  near  personal  impres- 
sion of  Croker  which  shall  be  of  value  as  one  follows 
through  his  flight  of  politics  whereof  this  story  pres- 
ently has  him  on  the  brink. 

Croker  is  now  about  twenty.  We  have  come  with 
him  through  parentage,  through  childhood,  through 
school  days;  we  have  watched  him  as  he  practiced  ath- 
letics for  recreation  and  wrought  with  forge  and  iron  at 
his  craft.  Still,  it  is  half  in  my  mind  that  for  the 
three  foregoing  chapters,  devoted  to  the  small,  I  owe 
apology  either  to  Croker,  or  the  audience,  or  both. 

Aristotle  might  not  have  approved  of  them;  his  vote, 
at  best,  would  have  depended  on  his  estimates  of 
Croker.  Were  the  latter  without  advertisement,  the 
Greek  would  have  condoned  that  work;  otherwise, 
should  he  conclude  on  Croker  as  one  wholly  known. 
In  his  "  Rhetoric,"  where  the  Stagirite  lays  down  rules 
to  be  the  law  of  sketch-making,  he  says,  "  If  Achilles 
be  the  subject  of  your  inquiries,  since  all  know  what 

117 


118 

he  has  done,  we  are  simply  to  indicate  his  actions  with- 
out stopping  to  detail  them;  but  this  would  not  serve 
for  Critias,  for  whatever  relates  to  him  must  be  fully 
told,  since  he  is  known  to  few." 

Now  that  I've  quoted  our  thoughtful  Greek,  Fm  in- 
clined to  disagree  with  him.  I  have,  on  occasion,  quar- 
reled with  the  dictum  of  many  a  man,  and  why  not  with 
Aristotle?  After  all,  though  a  pupil  of  Plato,  who 
was  a  pupil  of  Socrates,  he  was  but  another  blundering, 
wrong-going,  darkened  thing  called  man,  like  the  rest 
of  us.  Take  the  Greek  at  his  word.  All  he  knew  of 
Achilles  one  of  us  may  know.  We  find  that  the  father 
of  Achilles  was  Peleus,  and  his  mother, — that  sea- 
daughter — the  sweet  nereid  Thetis.  Also,  by  infer- 
ence, we  are  to  remark  that  Achilles  was  first  cousin  on 
his  father's  side  of  Ajax  Telamon.  At  the  age  of  six, 
reared  and  educated  by  the  centaur,  Achilles  slays  lions 
and  wolves  and  runs  down  stags.  Later  he  is  dipped 
in  the  Styx;  and  still  later,  accompanied  of  the  aged 
Phoenix  and  his  friend  Patroclus,  he  goes  with  a  fleet 
of  fifty  ships — quite  a  navy — to  the  Trojan  War. 

There  you  are!  And  nothing  to  come  of  it  all  save 
a  mad,  wild  hunger  for  more!  For  myself,  I  would 
gladly  bestow  an  hour  on  the  details  of  whatever  of 
housekeeping  the  parents  of  Achilles  put  forth.  Also, 
I  would  be  proud  to  know  the  daily  routine  of  study 
prescribed  by  that  horse-and-man,  his  teacher;  and 
what  system  of  rewards  and  punishments,  credit-marks 
and  canings,  Cheiron  brought  against  Achilles  to 
fetch  him  to  his  book.  And  those  lions:  how  big  were 
they?  And  those  stags  he  overtook  at  six;  how  much 
did  they  weigh?  and  what  was  the  count  of  their  tines? 
And  then  the  Styx;  was  it  navigable?  and  was  it  fur- 


ARISTOTLE  ADVISED.  119 

rowed  by  other  keels  than  that  of  the  dread  ferryman? 
There  are  a  thousand  questions  to  ask,  and  yet  a  thou- 
sand more.  Even  on  that  day  when,  in  vengeance  of  a 
dead  Patroclus,  Achilles  dragged  the  hewed  and  slaugh- 
tered Hector  thrice  around  the  walls  of  Troy,  speaking 
for  myself,  I  would  much  prefer  to  hear  what  the  hero 
had  for  dinner,  the  state  of  his  purse,  his  orders  to  his 
valet,  and  the  fault  found  with  the  cook,  than  to  listen 
to  the  blood-story.  Distinctly  I  disagree  with  Aris- 
totle; holding  as  against  him  that  once  a  man  has  done 
great  deeds,  those  small  trite  matters  of  common  daily 
routine  with  him  swell  to  a  vast  importance.  The  best 
book  Walter  Scott  ever  wrote  was  his  journal;  and  all 
for  that  it  told  of  the  little  things  that  went  hourly 
with  himself.  On  the  thought  second,  one  is  not  sure 
that  apology  is  due  to  anyone. 

Croker,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  walks  into  politics  and 
enters  Tammany  Hall.  There  is  a  dominie  of  these 
parts  noted,  rather  than  celebrated,  for  the  imperfect 
violence  of  his  interference  in  civic  affairs.  It  is  not 
understood  that  he  has  unusual  vogue  as  a  heart-mov- 
ing pulpiteer;  nor  are  his  preachments  vivid  of  that 
honey  of  character  and  sweet  placidity  of  gentleness  and 
love  so  marked  in  the  Master  Who  walked  by  Galilee. 
Indeed  it  has  been  held  by  folk  strangers  to  the  town 
and  him,  and  therefore  of  no  feeling,  that  our  dominie 
was  gnawed  of  bigotry;  vain  and  of  an  alert  conceit; 
one  whose  heat  was  that  hunger-fervor  for  the  calcium 
of  note,  never  to  be  satiated. 

This  moralist  was  in  a  recent  public  print  speaking 
with  every  license  of  opprobrium  of  New  York,  and 
Tammany  Hall,  and  Richard  Croker,  and  what  of 
other  men  and  matters  that  he  happened  to  mislike. 


120  RICHARD   CROKER. 

No  one  paid  uncommon  heed.  The  bitter  output  was 
recognized  as  that  conventional  venom  which  made  the 
way  by  which  he  lived;  which  nourished  and  clothed 
him,  and  paid  those  summer  costs  when  each  year  he 
leaves  the  town  to  Satan's  tail  and  talons  and  flies  to 
coolness  and  to  Switzerland.  I  have  hopes  that  our 
dominie  has  come  with  me  in  this  book  thus  far.  He, 
in  his  printed  scorn  of  all  things  save  himself,  expressed 
him  as  one  curious  to  learn,  not  the  origin  of  Croker, 
nor  any  native  trait,  but  his  education  and  home  life 
and  the  detail  of  that  environment  which  kept  him, 
child  and  youth.  Our  dominie  declared  that  once  he 
discovered  "how  one  was  brought  up,"  he  could  ac- 
count for  that  one's  after-life,  and  all  but  tell  what  good 
works  or  bad  were  to  come.  All  he  sought  to  be  made 
aware  of  was  the  character  of  a  child's  education — in 
the  instance  when  he  talked,  Croker's  education — 
within  doors  and  without,  and  he  would  foretell  the 
story  of  that  child. 

It  is  honest  to  admit  that  I  step  aside  to  the  recol- 
lection of  this  dominie  and  his  utterances  in  the  spirit 
of  contention.  There  is  some  question  which  truth 
might  make  with  what  he  states,  together  with  an 
exposure  of  its  character  as  nonsense.  Withal,  there 
is  a  severity  or  two  which  calls  for  saying  to  the  Church 
itself.  No,  I  never  go  to  church;  like  Henry  David 
Thoreau,  "I've  no  talent  for  worship."  But  wnat  of 
that?  May  not  one  look  a  church  in  the  face  and  talk 
with  it?  Your  church  presents  itself  as  a  wash-house 
of  the  spirit — a  place  where  one  may  have  one's  soul 
laundered.  Too  often  it  comes  to  be  a  hive  of  hy- 
pocrisy. But  whatever  it  is,  it  was  made  by  man,  and 
is  run  by  man,  and  man  may  speak  with  it  plainly. 


NATURE  18  CHANGELESS.  121 

One  is  not  to  decide  that  because  one  does  not  go  to 
church  one  has  no  religion.  It  is  for  that  one  has  one 
that  one  sometimes  stays  away.  It  is  a  good  religion 
that  bases  itself  on  a  hatred  of  hypocrites,  a  loathing 
of  pretenders,  a  disgust  of  cowards,  and  a  contempt  of 
fools.  "  Crouched,"  as  Carlyle  has  it,  "  between  two 
eternities,  the  future  and  the  past,"  the  least  among 
us  knows  as  much  as  any.  And  there's  a  deal  of  pre- 
tense to  your  church.  He  who  unlocks  the  Will-be 
should  unlock  the  Was;  the  key  that  fits  the  future 
should  fit  the  past;  tell  one,  therefore,  oh,  Church! 
where  one  has  been?  That,  as  a  fact,  is  fixed,  and 
should  be  easier  of  description  than  a  future  which 
lies  still  in  the  lap  of  indecision. 

"Faith,"  say  you? 

What  faith?  Is  it  that  whereof  the  playwright 
speaks  when  in  his  lines  he  observes,  "  Faith !  Faith  is 
believing  something  that  one  knows  isn't  so." 

But  there  is  a  fashion  of  faith;  not  your  church 
faith,  truly!  but  faith  none  the  less,  valid  and  buoyant. 
It  is  a  faith  in  all  the  future,  aye!  though  it  be  shore- 
less; faith  in  the  unshakable,  deathless  equity  of  the 
Plan.  It  is  the  faith  which  serves  itself,  stands  by  its 
own  strength,  and  asks  no  gardening  hand  to  trim  or 
train  it — no  trellis  of  a  creed  for  its  support. 

But  to  recur  to  our  dominie,  who  waits  for  one  this 
space.  Friar,  observe  thee:  That  good  or  that  evil 
which  one  is  to  do  has  its  first  sprouts  in  one's  nature. 
Those  seedlings  are  immortal  beyond  any  blow  of  yours. 
They  are  not  man-sown.  No  mere  "  bringing  up,"  as 
you  phrase  it,  is  to  kill  them  in  one  breast  or  keep 
them  in  another.  That  "  bringing  up,"  or  "  training," 
or  "  education  of  environment/'  or  what  you  will  for  a 


122  RICHARD   CROKER. 

term,  is  a  film,  a  wash,  a  paint,  and  altogether  of  the 
surface.  Plant  corn  in  a  hothouse,  give  it  the  care  of 
orchid  or  of  rose,  yet  shall  it  come  forth  corn.  Re- 
trieve  the  pigling  of  a  day  from  the  hreast  of  his 
mother;  bestow  on  him  such  "  bringing  up "  as  you 
prefer;  robe  him  in  silks,  and  sweeten  him  with  baths, 
and  feed  him  milk  and  lilies.  Do  this  while  you  please: 
one  year,  two  years,  three.  Then  make  your  pupil  loose. 
That  pigling,  lusty  now  and  grown,  will  hie  himself  to 
the  earliest  mud-wallow  and  roll  therein;  he  will  crowd 
among  his  fellows  and  shout  and  sing  for  draff;  he  will 
guttle  his  mess  with  his  feet  in  the  trough,  and  then 
sleep  stertorously  and  offensively  therein. 

Training!  One  can't  train  a  nature  out  of  itself. 
One  may  put  on  the  pressure  of  an  environment,  or  the 
manacles  of  a  "  bringing  up,"  and  so  enforce  hypocrisy 
and  compel  a  pretense — an  assumption  of  a  virtue  that 
doesn't  exist.  But  one  cannot  reach  the  nature.  Re- 
move the  pressure,  knock  off  the  bonds  and  your  pig,  or 
your  wolf,  or  whatever  was  student  of  that  "  bringing 
up,"  is  off  for  his  sty  or  his  cave  like  water  down-hill. 

Friar,  even  in  thine  own  scolding  and  slanderous  ex- 
ample, the  futility  of  what  you  say  appears.  You  stand 
proof  against  your  own  preachments.  You  assume 
to  teach  charity,  and  you  show  none;  humility,  while 
pride  grows  on  you  like  ivy  on  a  wall;  a  score  of 
times  you  have  taught  from  the  text,  "  He  that  is  with- 
out sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her  " — 
and  yet  you  devote  yourself  to  lashing  Magdalens. 

"  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them."  This  was 
uttered  of  a  church  as  much  as  any.  What  are  the 
fruits  political  of  the  Church?  There  is  small  pur- 
pose here,  or  rather  none  at  all,  to  consider  the  Church 


EXTERIOR  OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  CLUB. 


THE  CHURCH  POLITICAL.  123 

save  only  as  it  shoulders  its  way  into  politics.  There 
is  to  be  short  patience  with  it  in  that  part.  As  a  vote 
guide  the  Church  is  worse  than  a  woman.  Yet  the 
church-political  comes  and  keeps  coming.  Peculiarly 
is  this  churchly  intromission  true  concerning  city 
government.  And  this  last,  be  it  known,  in  all  that  is 
pressing  on  you,  whether  of  tax  or  privilege,  is  of  ten- 
fold moment  with  any  rule  of  Washington. 

And  for  that  the  Church  is  grown  so  brazen 
to  voice  its  surpliced  views;  and  that,  too,  as  one 
arrogant,  declining  check  or  challenge,  it  should  earn 
some  comment.  The  Church  should  be  reminded  that 
the  civil  part  borne  by  it  in  the  centuries  is  not  encour- 
aging. It  was  against  church-avarice  that  statutes  of 
mortmain  were  enacted;  statutes  to  have  present  reiter- 
ation in  every  English-speaking  land.  This  was  lest 
at  the  ghost-scared  death-beds  of  poor,  sweating  sin- 
ners, the  Church  should  rob  his  patrimony  from  every 
man  of  England. 

In  our  own  Constitution  the  Church  is  debarred  from 
linking  up  with  State.  Our  fathers  found  in  their  ap- 
prehensions a  call  to  build  up  a  wall  against  it.  To 
their  obdurate  glory  they  builded  wisely  and  builded 
well.  And  now  is  it  for  us  to  permit  the  Church  to 
give  counsel  tantamount  with  orders  to  our  wheels- 
men? Look  well  ere  you  consent  to  this.  The  cen- 
turies show  the  pulpit  no  better  than  the  pew;  nor  half 
so  wise.  Then  keep  the  church-hand  off  your  public 
work.  Decline  a  church  word  in  your  councils.  The 
law  is  the  better  bulwark;  the  altar  seeks  ever  itself. 
You  may  turn  the  pages  of  past  time  until  your  tired 
arm  sinks  stricken,  yet  shall  you  not  turn  to  any  civic 
good  accomplished  of  a  church. 


124  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Why  do  I  quarrel  with  the  Church?  Because,  from 
standpoints  of  the  state,  it  does  no  equity  nor  justice. 
It  pays  no  tax  when  it  should.  It  asks  that  public 
money  be  put  in  its  hands,  in  its  own  affairs,  when  it 
shouldn't.  Is  it  the  law  to  do  these  deeds?  Well, 
then,  and  what  of  that?  There  is  much  to  be  law  that 
fails  to  be  justice.  As  said  an  eminent  jurist:  "  He  " — 
and  the  word,  if  it  were  "  church/'  would  be  as  true — 
"  he  who  taketh  the  law  of  the  land  for  his  sole  guide 
is  neither  a  good  neighbor  nor  an  honest  man."  Be- 
cause a  law  built  by  the  cowardice  of  politicians,  or  as 
a  bribe  for  churchly  aid,  opens  villain  door,  must  the 
Church  rush  in?  It  should,  when  one  studies  its  assur- 
ances, be  the  first  to  close  it.  And  because  it  doesn't 
close  it,  but  both  ways  has  greedy  money  advantage 
thereof,  one  may  know  that  in  that  spirit  of  avarice 
which  in  the  times  that  were  stung  the  state  to  punitive 
action  more  than  once,  the  Church  to-day  is  the  Church 
that  was.  The  Church  is  never  a  patriot  and  always  a 
leech.  It  is  a  Bourbon,  and  in  the  words  of  the  Cor- 
sican,  "  learns  nothing,  forgets  nothing!  "  Oh!  I  have 
seen  a  church  and  met  a  clergy  who  did  not  in  each 
item  meet  this  picture.  But  that  was  in  a  time  long 
away,  and  the  region  is  a  far  cry  from  New  York. 
Let  that  wend. 

It  has  raised  its  voice  as  a  question,  whether  our 
clergy,  as  they  return  from  that  world  of  politics 
where  they  have  been  "  going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth 
and  walking  up  and  down  in  it,"  analyze  the  motive  of 
their  activity?  Is  it  because  their  zeal  is  asked  for  by 
a  coterie  of  rich  parishioners  with  axes  to  gain  an  edge 
by  public  grinding?  They  should  read  where  it  is  writ- 
ten: "  For  the  congregation  of  hypocrites  shall  be  deso- 


THEIR  BELLY  PREPARETH  DECEIT.  125 

late,  and  fire  shall  consume  the  tabernacle  of  bribery. 
They  conceive  mischief,  and  bring  forth  vanity,  and 
their  belly  prepareth  deceit." 

It  is  but  just  to  many  a  clergyman  who  is  copy  of 
Goldsmith's  "  Village  Preacher  "  to  admit  that  my  ex- 
perience among  their  fellows  hasn't  sent  me  the  best 
specimens.  I  have  only  an  eye  and  an  ear  knowledge 
of  those  four  or  five  who  are  so  impotently  vigorous  in 
this  town's  concerns.  And  these  invoke  the  honest 
confidence  of  none.  Wisdom  pins  neither  faith  nor 
trust  to  what  they  say  or  do. 

For  a  first  discouraging  thought  they  are  a  camera- 
hunting  litter.  They  have  each  more  pictures 
"taken"  than  some  prince-noticed  soubrette.  And 
of  the  same  motive:  the  press.  These  clerics  will 
dispatch  a  half  dozen  new  photographs  of  themselves  to 
each  paper  in  the  town  each  year.  And  with  a  cock- 
roach lust  for  ink,  they  are  ever  imploring  the  attend- 
ance of  an  interviewer.  Also,  they  love  the  tents  of 
the  ungodly.  'With  the  curse  of  rum  in  hideous  exhibi- 
tion all  about  them,  they  offer  you  a  sparkling  example 
across  table  of  a  glassful  of  wine.  They  talk  of  local 
poverty  and  its  relief — talk,  mind  you,  not  act — with 
sixty-cent  cigars  between  their  lips.  At  dinners  which 
cost  twenty  dollars  a  plate,  over  vintages  to  call  for 
twelve  dollars  a  quart,  they  debate  the  freezing  and  the 
starving  not  a  half  mile  away. 

"  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,"  twittered  a  wren- 
headed  fop  on  an  occasion  as  above  painted — "  so  far 
as  my  observation  goes,  the  poor  are  a  bum  lot." 

And  the  bishop  who  had  brought  up  the  subject 
laughed  as  at  the  utterances  of  a  second  Theodore 
Hook. 


126  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Wren-head  was  right:  "  The  poor  are  a  bum  lot." 
But  if  these  clerics  be  Christians,  and  not  as  he  who 
"  covereth  his  face  with  fatness  and  maketh  collops  of 
fat  on  his  flanks,"  why  do  they  not  rise  from  their  beds 
of  down,  issue  forth  from  their  palaces  to  cost  a  king's 
ransom,  and  with  a  fragment  of  their  salaries  of  a 
prince,  lift  for  one  day,  even,  the  burden  of  some  strug- 
gling, cold-nipped,  hunger-beaten  wretch?  Aye!  why 
not,  and  they  be  Christians  ?  There  live  those  who  are 
not  Christians,  and  a  long  flight-shot  from  it  in  fact, 
yet  this  wan  business  of  other  people's  hunger  has 
bothered  them  out  of  many  a  dollar,  I  grant  you. 

These  are  the  clergy — and  it  is  they  to  stir  the  pot 
of  local  politics — with  whom  I've  collided.  There  is 
much  in  them  to  distaste.  And  because  of  them  one  is 
driven  to  certain  decisions.  One  is  made  to  reflect  that 
the  professionally  good  cannot  be  very  good;  nor  those 
excellent  for  a  salary  of  the  best  excellence.  These 
preachers  are  the  mere  hired  evidence  of  the  respecta- 
bility of  their  congregations.  Their  pulpits  are  wit- 
ness boxes  from  which  they  each  week  give  their  testi- 
mony. Their  best  methods  of  tendering  that  proof 
they're  paid  for,  and  as  well  the  one  most  delicate,  is  to 
find  scolding  fault  with  all  and  everything  outside  the 
Church.  And  they  earn  their  money.  Like  members 
of  other  professions,  they  wax  vain  of  their  craft. 
They  become  pleasingly  puffed  with  themselves.  They 
look  often  in  the  glass,  and  seldom  from  the  window. 
Stall-fed  hypocrites  these;  the  Pharisee  and  the  Scribe 
are  their  exemplars. 

But  were  they  of  souls  tender,  honest,  and  patriotic- 
ally true,  still  one  would  be  as  witless  as  weak  to  heed 
them  in  public  matters.  Of  all  who  are  peculiarly 


PULPIT  WEAKNESS.  12* 

impractical  and  unfitted  in  what  one  may  call  the 
coarser  cares  of  life,  he  of  the  pulpit  stands  first. 
You  may  not  know  a  course  to  take  in  politics;  surely 
the  pulpit  does  not.  You,  politically,  may  be  dull  of 
eye;  the  Church,  politically,  is  blind.  And  if  you  won't 
read  history  to  your  caution,  at  least  read  that  Book 
where  it  tells  of  what  passeth  when  the  blind  leads  the 
blind. 

Your  Church,  too,  aside  from  its  license  as  a  pilot  of 
morals,  is  a  business  institution.  In  affairs  cogent  and 
of  moment  to  itself  it  can  be  both  cunning  and  vigilant. 
And  there  is  a  business  side  of  politics  easily  stretched 
to  by  the  Church.  Wherefore,  you  are  to  scan  a  pulpit 
counsel  as  you  would  the  word  of  any  who  may  have 
some  personal  iron  in  the  fire. 

Interest  aside,  however,  your  preacher  is  not  like  to 
be  any  mighty  storehouse  of  wisdom.  The  pulpit  is 
bound,  in  the  character  of  the  exercise  it  offers,  to 
grow  of  weakest  head.  No  one  contradicts  a  preacher; 
he  goes  from  cradle  to  grave  uncontended  with.  For 
him  there  is  nothing  to  discover,  it's  all  there;  noth- 
ing to  prove,  it's  all  admitted;  none  to  wrestle  with, 
it's  all  on  one  side.  And  so  your  dominie's  mind- 
brawn  becomes  flabby,  faded,  and  wasted.  Nature  is 
no  spendthrift  and  throws  nothing  away.  Nature  is  an 
economist;  she  arms  no  one  who  has  no  foe,  strengthens 
none  who  goes  unopposed.  In  any  non-religious  con- 
tingency, whether  public  or  private,  your  dominie's  is 
the  last  door  at  which  Wisdom,  when  it  has  lost  its  way, 
will  rap  for  direction. 

However,  I  realize  that  I  strive  with  the  respectable 
superstititions  of  men;  or  against  their  pocketbook, 
which  is  the  most  active  of  all  superstitions.  There- 


128  niCHAHD  CHOKER. 

fore  shall  we  finish  on  this  score.  "  Should  a  wise 
man  utter  vain  knowledge,  and  fill  his  belly  with 
the  east  wind?  Should  he  reason  with  unprofitable 
talk?  or  with  speeches  wherewith  he  can  do  no  good?  " 

Tammany  Hall  was  seventy-four  years  old  when 
Richard  Croker,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  wrote  his  name 
on  its  rolls.  It  was  a  tower  of  political  strength  at  that 
time;  its  battlements  have  thickened  and  broadened 
and  crept  upward  in  the  thirty-eight  years  since  then. 

On  a  bright  afternoon  Fourteenth  Street  bustles 
briskly  about  its  business.  From  Dead  Man's  Curve  in 
Union  Square  comes  tke  clangor  of  myriad  cable  cars. 
An  elevated  train  rumbles  uproariously  into  the  station 
in  Third  Avenue.  Smart  crowds,  hurrying  into  the  Den 
Thompson  matinee  at  the  Academy,  jostle  you  about, 
and  you  pause  to  draw  a  breath.  Opposite  you  is  the 
building  to  be  the  home  of  Tammany  Hall.  Looking 
upward  your  eye  catches  the  legend,  TAMMANY  SO- 
CIETY, and  on  either  side  the  dates,  1789  and  1867. 

Seventeen  hundred  and  eighty-nine!  A  hundred 
years  roll  back,  and  one  is  in  quaint,  colonial  New 
York!  Fourteenth  Street  stretches  away  into  sunny 
meadow  land.  Down-town  the  great  buildings  dwindle 
into  low,  rambling  farmhouses.  On  the  corner  of 
Nassau  and  Spruce  streets  stands  a  long  wooden  struc- 
ture, built  after  the  ancient  Dutch.  This  is  the  tavern 
of  one  Brom  Martling;  a  sore  and  drinking  grief  to  the 
quietly  inclined. 

"Brom  Martling's  Long  Room"  constituted,  on 
alternate  nights,  a  dance  hall  for  the  festive  and  a 
wigwam  for  the  early  Tammany  braves.  By  reason  of 
its  unsightliness,  the  "Long  Room"  was  stigmatized 
by  Tammany's  political  adversaries  as  the  "  Pig  Pen/' 


SRO M  MARTLING'S.  1 2  9 

The  joviality  of  the  old-time  gatherings  at  Marking's 
is  traditional.  Of  Tammany's  good  cheer  the  poet  Hal- 
leek  has  sung. 

After  the  dispatch  of  regular  business  those  of  the 
members  who  desired  "  to  make  a  night  of  it "  reorgan- 
ized. The  "  night "  commonly  lasted  until  morning, 
and  was  spent  in  drinking  political  toasts,  singing 
songs,  and  telling  stories  of  the  narrator's  own  brag- 
ging exploits  of  peace  and  war. 

Before  the  days  of  Martling's  the  earliest  meetings 
of  the  Tammany  Society  were  held  in  Barden's  Tavern 
in  Broad  Street.  It  was  not  until  1811  that  the 
Tammany  braves  were  able  to  rear  a  wigwam  for 
themselves.  Then  the  old  Tammany  Hall,  which  occu- 
pied the  present  site  of  the  Sun  building,  was  begun. 
Amid  much  pomp  of  aboriginal  paint  and  feathers, 
Clarkson  Crolius,  the  Great  Sachem  of  the  society, 
laid  the  corner  stone.  In  1812  the  Hall  was  first  occu- 
pied as  the  regular  Tammany  wigwam.  It  continued 
to  be  the  headquarters  of  the  New  York  Democracy 
until  1867,  when  the  society  erected  the  present  Tam- 
many Hall  in  Fourteenth  Street.  A  white  marble 
statue  of  the  Delaware  chief  Tamanend  (Tammany) 
adorns  the  fagade  of  the  Fourteenth  Street  building. 
One  reads  of  him  in  Cooper's  "  Last  of  the  Mohicans." 
From  him  the  Tammany  Society  took  its  name. 

Tamanend  was  a  great  Delaware  warrior  of  the 
Turtle  clan,  famed  in  folklore  and  savage  story  for  his 
sagacity  and  love  of  liberty.  He  ruled  over  the 
thirteen  tribes  of  the  Lenni-Lennape  (Delawares) 
confederacy,  whereof  the  home-region  was  what  is  now 
New  York,  Delaware,  New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania. 
Tamanend  was  present  at  the  Great  Council  under  the 


130  RICHARD  CROKm. 

elm  tree  at  Shakamakon,  and  signed  the  treaty  with 
William  Penn.  The  legend  runs  that  he  was  afterward 
invited  by  Manco  Capac  to  revise  the  constitution  of 
Peru,  and  made  a  journey  through  Mexico  to  the  land 
of  the  Children  of  the  Sun  for  that  purpose.  On  his 
departure  for  Peru  he  dedicated  each  of  his  thirteen 
tribes  to  some  particular  animal,  such  as  the  bear,  the 
beaver,  or  the  otter,  whose  good  qualities  were  com- 
mended to  Indian  emulation. 

During  Revolutionary  days  patriotic  societies  were 
formed  under  the  name  of  "  The  Sons  of  Tam- 
many." Later  Tamanend  was  adopted  as  the  tutelar 
divinity  of  Democratic  America.  These  early  Tam- 
many Societies  were  scattered  throughout  the  South 
and  West,  but  up  to  1789  had  no  existence  in  New 
York  nor  farther  east.  To  William  Mooney,  a  famous 
citizen,  belongs  the  credit  of  having  organized  the 
Tammany  Society  in  New  York.  Mooney  was  an 
Irishman  by  descent,  an  American  by  birth.  During 
the  Revolution  he  was  a  leader  among  the  famous 
"  Liberty  Boys."  After  the  war  Mooney  went  into 
business  as  an  upholsterer  on  Nassau  Street. 

It  was  Mooney's  thought  to  call  the  society  the 
"  Columbian  Order,"  but  he  wisely  yielded  to  the 
Indian  name,  and  in  1805,  sixteen  years  after  its 
formation,  the  association  was  incorporated  as 
"  The  Tammany  Society."  Its  members  clung  to  the 
musical  Indian  appellation.  In  the  old  records  the 
Christian  Era  was  discarded,  and  all  transactions  were 
dated  from  three  events;  the  discovery  of  America  by 
Columbus,  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  the 
formation  of  the  Tammany  Society.  The  year  was 
quartered  into  the  seasons  of  Blossoms,  of  Fruits,  of 


WASHINGTON  AND  TAMMANY.  131 

Harvests,  and  of  Snows.  The  months  were  recorded 
after  the  Indian  method,  as  first,  second,  and  third 
"  Moons."  The  charter  of  Tammany  describes  it  as 
simply  a  charitable  institution.  The  society  frequently 
has  assisted  the  needy.  At  its  earlier  meetings  it  was  a 
common  custom  for  the  hat  to  be  passed  around  in 
favor  of  destitute  patriots  or  their  widows  and  orphans. 
In  later  years  Tammany  has  contributed  deeply  in 
times  of  public  disaster — pestilence,  flood,  and  famine 
— both  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

But  in  its  youth  Tammany  was  exclusively  a  social 
body.  It  made  a  specialty  of  celebrations.  During 
the  earlier  days  the  festival  of  Tammany,  held  on  the 
12th  of  May,  was  a  notable  holiday.  Booming  cannon 
and  waving  flags  heralded  its  dawn.  Tammany  braves 
paraded  the  streets  in  a  glory  of  paint  and  feathers. 
In  the  evening  the  populace  repaired  to  the  only 
theater  in  the  town.  On  one  occasion  a  play  entitled 
"  Tammany,  or  the  Indian  Chief,"  was  presented  on  the 
boards.  Washington,  with  several  members  of  his 
Cabinet,  applauded  the  performance. 

Tammany's  first  successful  stroke  of  politics  occurred 
in  1790,  a  year  after  the  formation  of  the  society. 
There  had  been  trouble  with  the  Creek  Indians  along 
the  frontiers  of  Georgia  and  the  Carolinas.  The 
national  debt  was  heavy.  The  people  were  war- 
impoverished.  The  paleface  for  once  wanted  peace. 
Washington,  anxious  to  conciliate  the  would-be  hos- 
tiles,  invited  a  delegation  of  the  Creek  chiefs  to  visit 
him  in  New  York,  then  the  seat  of  government. 
Washington  realized  that  the  outcome  of  this  visit  de- 
pended largely  on  the  impression  which  their  welcome 
created  in  the  minds  of  the  Indian  delegates.  Upon 


132  RICHARD  CROEER. 

their  arrival,  at  Washington's  request,  the  Creeks  were 
received  by  Tammany  in  the  temporary  wigwam  at 
Barden's  Tavern.  The  Tammany  braves  had  painted 
and  befeathered  themselves  to  the  last  effect.  The 
Indian  chiefs  were  delighted  with  their  hosts.  To 
show  their  joy,  they  danced  and  sang  the  screeching 
Et-hoh  song.  A  satisfactory  treaty  was  concluded 
with  Washington,  "  the  beloved  Sachem  of  the  thirteen 
tribes." 

Tammany  conducted  the  first  festival  in  honor  of 
the  discovery  of  America  by  Columbus.  The  celebra- 
tion was  held  on  the  12th  of  October,  1792,  and  com- 
memorated the  three  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
day.  But  the  early  Tammanyites  could  be  reverent  as 
well  as  gay.  For  many  years  it  had  been  a  reproach 
to  the  Government  that  the  skeletons  of  the  eleven 
thousand  five  hundred  patriots  who  perished  on 
the  British  prison-ships  at  Wallabout,  and  whose  bones 
bleached  along  the  shores  of  the  bay,  remained  un- 
buried.  After  many  wasted  appeals  to  Congress  the 
members  of  Tammany  Hall  raised  a  sum  sufficient  for 
their  honorable  sepulcher.  On  the  26th  of  May,  1808, 
a  solemn  funeral  pageant  passed  through  the  short 
streets  of  old  New  York  and  crossed  to  the  Brooklyn 
shore.  There,  in  a  vault  in  Hudson  Avenue  near  York 
Street,  the  bones  of  those  who  found  death  at  Walla- 
bout  were  laid  to  rest. 

When  civil  war  descended  in  a  red  flood  in  the  early 
sixties,  the  "  Tammany  Kegiment,"  or  Forty-second 
New  York  Volunteers,  organized  in  May,  1861,  was 
under  arms  with  the  earliest.  Of  twelve  hundred  and 
ten  who  followed  Colonel  Kennedy  to  the  South,  the 
report  at  the  close  showed:  killed,  ninety-two;  wounded, 


TAMMANY  AND  GETTYSBURG.  133 

three  hundred  and  twenty-eight;  missing,  two  hundred 
and  ninety-eight.  There  was  no  better  record;  none 
more  valorous  than  the  soldiers  of  Tammany.  They 
bore  the  brunt  of  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg, 
the  decisive  movement  of  the  decisive  battle  of  the  war. 
To  their  honor,  on  September  24, 1891,  Tammany  Hall, 
through  a  committee  of  three  whereof  Mr.  James  J. 
Martin  was  chairman — himself  a  brave  soldier  of  that 
strife — erected  a  monument  on  Gettysburg  field.  It 
occupies  ground  held  by  the  Tammany  Eegiment  dur- 
ing the  pitch  of  the  fight. 

Tammany  is  the  oldest  and  most  powerful  self-con- 
stituted political  association  in  the  world.  It  began 
with  the  government  itself,  being  founded  within  a 
fortnight  after  Washington  took  the  oath  of  office  as 
the  first  President  of  the  United  States.  The  organi- 
zation took  place  at  the  old  City  Hall  in  Nassau  Street 
near  "Wall,  a  spot  within  sound  of  Washington's  voice 
as  he  spoke  his  first  Presidential  words  to  his  country- 
men. 


X. 


BALLOT    DUTIES. 

Stand  to  it,  noble  pikemen, 

And  look  you  round  about, 
And  shoot  you  right,  you  bowmen, 

And  we  will  keep  them  out. 

— Brave  Willougfihy. 

THESE  is  ever  the  murmur  of  criticism  to  fill  the 
querulous  air  against  the  politicians,  the  parties,  and 
the  "machines."  The  javelins  of  public  censure  are 
leveled  unremittingly  at  the  three.  There  is  justice  in 
these  complaints;  albeit,  when  the  subject  has  last 
elucidation,  there  is  to  be  clipped  and  sour  sympathy  for 
the  complainants.  Granted  each  violence  of  office,  or 
crime  of  policy,  that  has  been  charged  against  govern- 
ment since  government  began.  With  the  latest  syl- 
lable the  public  is  the  one  belaborable  therefor.  It 
isn't  for  King,  and  Kaiser,  and  Parliament,  and  Con- 
gress, and  President  that  rods  should  soak  in  pickle;  it 
is  for  those  peoples  who  permit  them,  and  in  whose 
names  and  under  whose  hands  they  act  their  sundry 
villainies.  The  whole  people,  or  even  a  majority  of 
the  whole,  can  proffer  no  demand  which  the  Prince  will 
decline.  He  will  accede,  not  for  his  honesty,  but  for 
his  fear.  The  royal  motive,  however,  comes  to  be  of 
light  concern;  it  is  the  deed  which  counts.  And  the 
deed  will  as  unfailingly  respond  to  a  united  public  as 
any  shallop  to  any  gale  of  wind. 

134 


THE   WELSHMEN'S  PRINCE.  135 

It  was  in  a  day  when  the  Welsh  were  not  so  wisely 
capable  as  now.  Weak  they  were,  compared  with  that 
monarch  with  whom  they  dealt,  for  he  was  bold  and 
crafty  as  against  their  untaught  ignorance. 

Yet  the  Welsh  had  one  fixed  thought  in  their  heads; 
they  would  be  ruled  by  none  save  him  native-born  of 
Wales.  And  thereupon  the  Welsh  public — not  a 
mighty  host  in  that  day — with  its  uncombed  hair  in  its 
eyes,  its  rough  attire,  its  savage  feet  shod  with  un- 
tanned  hides,  confronted  Edward  and  shouted,  "  A 
native  Prince!  "  Also,  they,  the  Welsh,  swore  by  their 
oaks  that  war  they  would  until  they  had  their  way. 

Edward  was  wroth,  for  the  blood  of  the  Plantagenets 
was  not  the  coolest  strain  in  England.  But  Edward 
confronted  a  whole  people,  and  was  afraid.  He  piled 
his  arms  and  a  sort  of  truce  succeeded.  There  was  a 
lapse  of  a  handful  of  months.  Then  Edward  invited 
the  Welsh  chiefs  and  head-folk  to  the  royal  castle  of 
Caernarvon.  He  gathered  them  into  the  great  hall. 
When  they  had  eaten  and  drunk,  and  the  King  observed 
that  they  gnawed  their  bones  slowly  and  with  dull  in- 
difference, as  ones  surfeited,  and  that  their  bickers  and 
wooden  stoups  of  liquor  were  left  long  untouched  on 
the  board,  he  arose  and  inquired  in  tones  of  angry 
loudness  if  they  were  still  of  that  mind  to  have  a  native 
Prince  or  war. 

It  was  like  a  tocsin-bell  and  acted  as  a  summons. 
There  was  none  of  the  Welsh  so  drunk  nor  dead  with 
over-meat  but  was  on  his  feet  with  the  moment.  They 
answered  the  King  with  much  clattering  of  arms,  and 
oral  affirmations  which  were  pregnant  of  storm. 
Drunk  and  sober,  full  and  hungry,  they  stuck  for  their 
point  to  a  Welshman. 


136  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

Edward  was  fain  to  smile  even  while  his  heart  was 
hot  with  anger  for  them.  Their  attitude  was  one  of 
high  defiance;  and  defiance  to  a  King  is  insult;  and  in- 
sult is  the  last  thing  your  true-born  King  may  stomach. 
But  Edward  swallowed  his  spleen,  as  rulers,  whether 
elective  or  named  of  God,  when  faced  by  a  whole  pub- 
lic have  ever  done,  and  salving  his  hurt  vanity  with  the 
thought,  vox  populi,  vox  Dei  est,  passed  into  another 
chamber. 

Edward  was  organized  to  yield  to  the  wild  Welsh 
when  they  would  not  yield  to  him.  A  cry — a  baby's 
cry — was  heard;  and  the  King  came  into  the  banquet 
hall  with  the  infant  in  his  arms.  Scowling  on  his 
"Welshmen  as  they  made  a  curious  crowd  about  him,  he 
held  his  puling  burden  high  so  all  might  see,  and 
shouted,  Eich  dyn!  and  so  gave  the  Welsh  a  Prince, 
and  the  Prince  a  motto, with  one  and  the  same  breath. 
It  was  but  sorry  Erse,  that  Eich  dyn;  still  it  meant, 
Here  is  your  man,  or  strictly,  Your  man;  and  the 
assembled  chiefs  as  they  gazed  on  the  first  Prince  of 
Wales,  a  Prince  who  had  been  to  the  trouble  of  a  great 
journey  to  be  born  among  their  hills,  felt  the  point  of 
honor  satisfied,  and  were  at  peace.  A  native  Prince 
had  been  granted  unto  them. 

And  as  it  was  in  the  day  of  Edward  and  his  Welsh,  so 
is  it  now  with  you  and  your  officers  of  state.  The  pub- 
lic may  have  aught  that  it  demands;  and  if  wrong  of 
"  machine,"  or  party,  or  crime  of  place  exists,  it  is  sure 
proof  that,  whatever  hypocrisy  may  say  aloud  or  put  in 
print  on  that  subject,  the  public  privily  consents  to, 
nay,  fosters  and  flatters  its  existence. 

There  is  stern  word  to  be  said  to  publics  concern- 
ing their  treasons  to  themselves.  It  was  a  recent 


AND  NOW  THE  CRITIC.  137 

day  when  a  critic,  who  was  also  an  officeholder,  arose 
and  made  unto  the  world  a  harangue.  It  was  in  its 
nature  a  criticism  of  politics  and  politicians,  and 
the  critic  bent  himself  to  inform  a  bevy  of  callow  stu- 
dents about  to  fly  from  that  nest  of  learning,  the  uni- 
versity, and  spake  veraciously  as  follows: 

"Being  an  officeholder  myself,  I  may  be  pardoned 
for  saying  that  most  of  the  men  who  are  holding  the 
offices  and  wielding  authority  will  be  forgotten  before 
the  grass  has  had  time  to  grow  over  them;  for  they  are 
not  the  great  captains,  they  are  not  the  leaders  of  our 
progress  and  of  our  civilization.  Their  vision  is 
limited  to  the  weather-vanes  of  public  buildings.  They 
never  give  the  order  for  advance  on  any  great  question; 
they  wait  to  be  commanded  to  move,  and  then  hesitate 
until  assured  that  it  is  the  voice  of  the  majority  call- 
ing to  them.  They  wait  until  the  leaders  of  thought 
have  captured  the  stronghold  of  a  wrong,  and  then  they 
try  to  plant  their  flag  over  the  ramparts  that  were 
stormed  by  others.  As  a  rule,  they  are  moral  cowards, 
following  the  music  wagon  of  their  time,  and  holding 
the  penny  of  immediate  advantage  so  close  to  their 
eyes  as  to  shut  out  the  sunlight  of  eternal  prin- 
ciples." 

There  your  critic  gives  one  a  true  etching  of  the 
average  officeholder — one  selfish  as  an  oyster,  hun- 
gry as  a  shark,  and  as  sublimely  egotistical  as  either. 
He  holds  office  not  for  its  duties,  but  for  its  perquisites, 
and  all  else  may  go  to  moth  and  rust  so  that  office  be 
preserved  to  his  lips  and  his  pap-sucking  does  not 
perish  from  the  earth.  Like  the  gambler  of  the  story, 
your  officeholder  cares  not  what  happens,  so  it  does  not 
happen  to  him-  One  is  glad  gur  critic  puts  the  case 


138  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

with  plainness.  Should  he  keep  on  talking  in  that 
strain  he  will  tell  much  truth,  and  may  even  work  some 
good. 

In  this  day,  when  we  have  plenty — and  misuse  it — 
when  it  is  an  era  of  abuse  rather  than  of  want,  a  critic 
should  be  more  thought  of  than  a  projector.  -Tis  a 
fat  hour,  rife  of  good  things,  opulent  of  the  possible, 
heavy  with  conditions  of  knee-deep  richness;  and  your 
critic  to  show  a  wrong,  to  indict  an  evil  and  pillory  in- 
justice— in  short,  to  object  and  carp  and  wield  a  lash  of 
biting  sarcasm — is  of  excellent  importance.  We  of 
America  don't  need  a  William  to  found  an  empire,  for 
we  have  an  empire;  our  time  calls  for  no  Charlemagne 
to  extend  an  empire,  for  we  have  enough;  even  a  Wash- 
ington is  no  longer  indispensable  to  our  destinies,  for 
our  Eevolution  is  secure.  What  we  could  use  is  a 
brigade  of  critics  to  act  as  whippers-in  and  keep  our 
hounds  of  office  to  their  duty  and  see  to  it  that  the 
honest,  proper  hunt  of  government  sweeps  ever  on. 

It  is  good  that  you  re-read  the  words  of  the  critic 
printed  before.  You  are  a  voter — a  free  citizen  of  this 
free  land  of  ours.  And  while  the  critic  draws  a  picture 
of  your  officers,  he  at  the  same  time  holds  a  mirror  up 
to  you.  "  The  representative  represents,"  and  he  in 
office  is  the  reflex  of  the  ones  who  put  him  there.  Your 
officer  is  as  natural  to  his  constituents  as  your  apple  to 
its  tree;  and  in  his  rottenness  or  his  sound  sweetness, 
he  tells  the  story  of  his  origin.  Your  officeholder  is 
the  creature  of  venal  mud  and  mire  the  critic  paints, 
but  it  is  because  of  your  choice,  connivance,  and  con- 
struction. He  is  your  fruit — your  apple;  and  you  must 
own  him.  He  wouldn't  be  there  and  couldn't  stay 
there,  save  for  you.  You  want  him,  and  there  he  is; 


THE  CRIMINAL  PUBLIC.  139 

you  want  him  corrupt,  and  behold  him  a  nest  and  lair 
of  foulness. 

Truly,  there  will  be  a  brood  of  hot,  resentful 
turkey-heads  to  rail  at  this.  They  will  heatedly  dis- 
claim responsibility  for  your  officeholder.  It  will  avail 
them  naught.  The  theory  of  this  government  is  per- 
fect for  its  time;  it  is  the  practice  that  breaks  down. 
And  the  practice  of  government  begins  with  the  citizen 
— with  you  who  read  this  and  contradict  it.  Who  would 
there  be  to  withstand  you,  if  you  struck  in  for  reform 
and  honesty  in  place?  Your  hands  are  not  tied,  your 
voice  is  not  stifled,  only  as  your  own  mean  hopes 
and  fears  are  found  to  bind  and  gag  them.  The  path 
is  plain  to  the  feet  of  every  voter,  and  runs  open  to  the 
expression  of  his  views  until  it  touches  the  Courts,  the 
Congress,  and  the  White  House.  There  are  neither 
guards  to  detain  nor  walls  to  interrupt  him.  From  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  in  primary  and  convention  and 
at  the  polls;  aye!  in  mass-meeting  and  by  petition  after- 
ward, your  voter — you  who  read — may  have  word  and 
weight,  both  in  the  selection  and  ordering  of  every 
tax-eater  on  the  lists. 

When  a  man  can  do  a  thing,  and  doesn't  do  it,  that's 
because  he  doesn't  want  to  do  it.  If  you  didn't  want  a 
rogue  in  office,  there  would  be  none;  if  a  monstrous 
policy  offended  you,  it  would  disappear.  Your  officials, 
whatever  they  are,  may  at  least  claim  you  as  their 
origin.  If  they  are  black,  it's  because  you  are  black; 
and  there's  not  one  word  which  the  critic  said  of  them 
he  couldn't  say  of  you.  A  people — and  that  means 
you — gets  invariably  a  government  to  wed  with  its 
deserts.  Is  it  a  tyranny,  a  monarchy,  an  aristocracy, 
an  oligarchy,  or  a  republic,  one  may  be  sure  it 


140  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

fits  neatly  and  nearly  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  folk 
over  whom  it  has  ward  and  sway.  Be  pure,  and  your 
government  will  be  pure;  be  brave,  it  will  have  courage; 
be  free,  and  freedom  will  abide  in  your  high  places  and 
descend  therefrom  to  the  rabble  least  among  you.  Be 
dogs,  and  you  will  have  dog-government — a  kennel,  a 
collar,  a  bone  to  gnaw,  and  a  chain  to  clank. 

It  is  by  no  means  sure  that  a  dog-government  isn't 
that  government  howled  for,  hunted,  and  desired  by 
a  huge  fraction  of  our  citizens  who,  if  asked  the 
question,  would  describe  themselves  as  ones  high- 
hearted and  noble,  and  bold,  free  gentlemen  withal! 
There  be  ever  a  moiety  of  folk  who  fear  to  be  free. 
They  don't  feel  safe  unless  they  feel  owned.  They 
have — to  pursue  a  simile  suggested  above — vastly  the 
dog-nature.  They  need  a  man  to  form  on  and  draw 
strength  from,  and  to  whom  their  trained,  tamed 
natures  may  refer  and  turn  for  direction  and  defense. 
Half  the  world  runs  about  hunting  a  master — seeking 
to  be  owned.  It  hasn't  the  courage  to  dwell  in  man- 
hood on  life's  fearless  hills.  Such  folk  can't  be  free. 
They  are  natural-born  subjects — cringers  from  the 
cradle;  so  bound  are  they  in  their  prostrate  natures  to 
have  a  king  that  they'd  crown  the  town  pump  if  noth- 
ing better  offered.  Yes,  forsooth!  the  woods  of  our 
citizenship  are  full  of  these  dog-folk.  Did  you  ever 
observe  a  lost  dog?  how  he  skulks  and  yelps  and,  with 
craven  tail  coiled  close  between  his  abject  legs,  flies 
from  a  shadow?  That's  all  because  the  dog  is  lost. 
He  feels  the  desolation  of  being  masterless — the  hor- 
ror of  the  cur  unowned.  To-morrow  you  may  meet 
him  with  one  who  has  consented  to  his  title.  And  he 
will  prove  a  bold,  insolent  dog,  and  battle  to  the  death 


JOHNSON  ON  PATRIOTISM.  HI 

for  black  or  for  white,  just  as  his  master  orders.  There 
be  those  to  call  these  servile  submissions  to  wrong  in 
government  patriotism.  It  may  be  so.  "  And  patriot- 
ism," said  Johnson  to  the  obsequious  Boswell,  "  is  the 
last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel." 

Keforms  must  ever  begin  with  the  people.  Your 
officer  of  state  will  seldom  fail  to  be  as  much  the  ill- 
monger  as  you  concede  him  license.  The  demand  for 
better  things  must  come  from  the  public.  It  has  been 
thus  through  history.  Whenever  an  ill  condition  was 
to  be  fought  and  conquered,  the  torch  of  truth  and  pro- 
test had  first  to  be  kindled  at  some  obscure,  lowly 
hearth.  And  once  lighted  and  burning,  it  passed  on 
and  on,  from  hand  to  hand,  until  that  torch  traveled 
from  low  to  high;  and  that  which  started  with  the 
peasant  was  last  seized  on  by  the  prince.  The  people 
may  have  anything  they  demand.  They  have  but  to 
be  true  to  themselves — which  they  seldom  are. 

Whatever  one  calls  his  party  politics,  the  name  com- 
monly means  no  more  than  a  screen  for  his  self- 
interest.  Doubtless  there  is  a  sordid  logic  which  goes 
with  money,  and  most  folk  consult  their  pocketbooks 
when  deciding  their  public  duty.  If  one  be  killing 
pigs,  or  building  boats,  or  forging  rotten  armor  plates, 
or  loaning  money,  those  public  conditions,  whether  of 
war,  or  peace,  or  murder,  or  pillage,  or  liberty  dead,  or 
law  defied,  or  constitution  invaded  and  set  at  naught, 
which  flow  a  profit  to  one's  pocket  are  to  one  right,  and 
those  one  will  sustain.  One  does  not  care  though  a 
King  be  in  the  White  House,  and  Satan  himself  that 
King,  so  that  it  add  and  swell  one's  bank  account.  One 
feels  no  further  than  the  dollar,  sees  no  further  than 
the  day. 


142  RICHARD  CROKER. 

And  what  is  true  of  the  high  is  true  of  the  middle 
and  the  low;  what  is  true  of  the  rich  is  true  also  of 
the  poor.  As  blinded  slaves  of  selfishness  they  stand 
abreast;  each  jostles  the  other  as  he  crowds  towards 
that  mess  of  pottage  for  which  his  birthright  is  for  sale. 
There's  no  such  mighty  difference  between  men;  no  one 
is  far  ahead  nor  far  behind;  the  race  of  humanity  striv- 
ing is  fairly  well  bunched,  and  one  might  cover  the  field 
with  a  horse  blanket.  So-called  politics,  as  expressed 
by  the  parties,  wouldn't  assay  ten  ounces  of  patriotism 
to  the  ton.  It  is  but  a  mad  business — a  lunatic  dance, 
and  the  piper  is  yet  to  be  paid.  And  still  the  whole 
dinner  of  government,  as  it  goes  a-cooking,  is  under 
the  palm  of  the  public. 

That  critic  aforesaid  has  given  a  true  picture  of  those 
who  sit  in  your  high  places.  He  says  they  are  thick, 
slow,  timid,  greedy,  dishonest;  and  they  are.  And  you 
don't  like  it?  Then  make  your  stand.  Those  officers 
will  do  anything,  be  anything,  you  say.  Do  you  want 
your  taxes  less?  they  will  lower  them.  Are  you  tired 
of  tariff?  they  will  reduce  it  to  the  flat  levels  of  free 
trade.  Do  you  long  for  silver?  you  shall  have  it.  Or 
if  you  prefer  gold,  it  is  yours.  Or  say  so,  and  you  shall 
have  both.  Those  pliant  folk  of  place'  will  put  the  ship 
of  state  about;  they  will  sail  to  any  compass  point;  or 
they  will  set  a  staysail  and  heave  to,  exactly  as  you — 
the  public — demand. 

You — the  public — are  in  fault  for  whatever  goes 
forward  in  office.  You  have  the  whole  tangle  in  your 
lap,  to  mar  or  mend  it  as  you  please.  Officers  are  a 
stunted  litter;  from  pathmaster  to  president  they  are 
mere  warts  and  pimply  excrescences  on  the  body  politic, 
which  chance  and  the  secretion  of  this  and  that  poor 


THE  WORKINGMAN.  143 

humor  have  forced  into  a  more  or  less  inflamed  and 
hectic  exaltation.  And  you — the  public — may  instantly 
have  your  will  of  all  or  any  of  them  to  make  them  go, 
or  stay,  or  do.  No;  there  should  be  no  high  belief  of  any 
instant,  lightning-like  mutations  for  the  better;  and 
good  comes  slowly  and  seems  shod  with  lead.  Affairs 
will  trundle  onwards  in  much  the  same  old  villain 
way  of  bad.  But,  inspired  of  the  critic's  view,  it  does 
one  good  to  say  these  things  and  leaves  one's  mind 
relieved. 

There  is  no  uncommon  outlook  for  a  better  condi- 
tion in  any  pose  the  labor  element  shall  take.  The 
masses  are  as  full  of  treason  as  the  classes,  and  sell 
out  for  less.  The  so-called  workingman,  as  he  pre- 
sents himself  in  politics,  is  not  a  spectacle  of  hope. 
There  is  but  one  greater  fool  than  the  workingman, 
and  that  is  the  fool  he  works  for.  Both  are  the 
worst  of  Esaus  and  fairly  contend  with  one  another 
as  to  which  shall  be  more  deeply  deluded  by  the  Jacob 
of  politics  as  now  is.  The  public  is  on  the  bridge 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  and  it  is  the  public's  fault 
when  the  nation  is  on  the  rocks.  You — the  public — 
should  never  forget  as  you  gaze  on  an  officeholder  that 
in  him,  whether  he  be  sound  or  foul,  you  see  your- 
self revealed  as  in  a  looking-glass.  Your  President, 
for  instance, — whoever  he  is  or  may  hereafter  be, — 
is  but  a  pocket  mirror  of  the  people  he  presides 
over. 

It  is  fair-faced  and  honest  as  a  question  why  such 
often  ill  is  spoken  of  Tammany  Hall.  And  since  I  am 
no  member  of  that  organization,  mine  should  be  as  just 
a  pencil  to  spell  an  answer  as  any  other.  If  my  words 
should  sound  for  Tammany's  defense,  at  least  they  are 


144  RICHARD  GROKER. 

from  the  general  grandstand  and  not  from  any  rank  of 
partisanship. 

Tammany  from  the  first  has  stood  for  the  rights  of 
man  rather  than  the  privileges  of  money.  The  rights 
of  property  are  second  to  the  rights  of  humanity  in  the 
teachings  of  Tammany  Hall.  This  is  and  was  as 
should  be.  Tammany  Hall  was  and  is  made  up,  in 
the  grand  aggregate  of  its  membership,  of  poor 
folk — those  whose  craft  is  of  the  hands.  With  ninety 
thousand  names  on  its  tallies  the  collected  private 
riches  of  Tammany's  whole  membership  would  not 
reach  the  single  figure  of  any  one  of  a  half  dozen 
fortunes  which  dwell  in  this  town.  And  as  nothing 
of  the  East  is  fashionable  which  does  not  found  on 
money,  Tammany,  as  was  before  explained,  is  unfash- 
ionable. And  what  thing  of  New  York  City  earns 
or  heirs  the  epithet  of  unfashion  is  summarily  de- 
nounced and  spat  upon  and  as  if  it  were  Crime's  self. 

Moreover,  the  evil  told  of  Tammany  is  not  the  relation 
of  the  common  voice;  it  is  ever  the  partisan  word  of  an 
enemy.  Tammany  has,  and  since  the  first  has  had,  two 
natural  foes.  There  is  the  party  legitimately  of  oppo- 
sition; once  the  Federal,  later  the  Whig,  and  now  the 
Republican.  And  next  there  is  the  party  of  the  Mug- 
wump. These  two  influences  are  to  fling  furious  and 
never-ceasing  calumniation  against  Tammany  Hall. 

Nor  should  fault  be  digged  for.  Such  verbal  siege 
and  storming  are  by  nature's  own  decree.  It  is  the 
law.  Politics  is  mere  war,  wanting  the  incident  of 
blood.  In  real  war  one  might  speak  compliment  of 
one's  foes;  it  would  reflect  self -credit  as  a  word  mag- 
nanimous, and  never  dull  the  falchion's  edge  for  that. 
But  in  politics — as  conducted  humanly — one  may  not 


THE  MUGWUMP  GOOD.  H5 

give  good  report  of  one's  enemy;  for  since  politics  is 
only  a  war  of  words — the  balloting  being  indeed  but 
a  counting  of  the  slain — to  speak  well  of  an  opposition 
would  be  half  equal  to  surrender.  Wherefore  is  Tam- 
many, naturally  and  incessantly,  the  subject  of  assault. 
And  as  naturally  and  incessantly  the  chief  of  Tam- 
many, being  presently  Eichard  Croker,  is  selected  and 
vehemently  arrowed  against  as  the  center  of  the  butt. 
On  its  part,  Tammany  retorts  similarly  against  its 
assailants;  and  as  result — as  has  been  for  all  time  true 
of  true  politics — one  does  not  hear  ten  words  of  honesty 
from  any  side.  Each  party  sits  up  of  nights  brewing 
mendacity  against  the  other  two;  and  then  devotes  the 
next  day  to  feeding  therewith  all  willing  ears. 

There  is  a  born  reasonableness  in  the  Eepublican  at- 
tack on  Tammany.  That  party,  the  grandchild  of  the 
Federal  organization  of  a  century  ago,  is,  as  one  should 
say,  innocently,  or  perhaps  the  better  word  is  properly, 
in  the  field.  This  is  not  true  of  the  party-Mugwump. 
The  presence — nay,  the  existence — of  the  Mugwump  is 
exotic.  One  is  by  no  means  sure,  however,  that  your 
Mugwump  is  not  an  excellent  institution  of  Providence. 
Of  course,  one  speaks  of  the  bred  and  pure-strain  Mug- 
wump, and  not  of  those  others  spurious,  who  for  prac- 
ticed villainies,  whether  private  or  public,  have  been 
drummed  and  driven  from  the  divers  camps  of  politics 
to  the  music  of  the  "Kogue's  March."  Your  true 
Mugwump  serves  felicitously  the  purpose  of  a  critic; 
and  a  critic  of  politics,  as  we  have  lately  beheld,  is  a 
desideratum. 

Your  Mugwump,  like  poets  and  others  the  plain 
whelps  of  Genius  breeding,  is  born  and  not  made. 
And  some  are  greater  and  more  brilliant  of  mug- 


146  RICHARD  CROKER. 

wumpery  than  others,  just  as  one  finds  in  Byron  a 
more  scintillant  poet  than  in  Hood.  By  one  sign 
one  may  know  them;  and  that,  too,  whether  the 
individual  Mugwump  considered  be  of  the  giant  or  of 
the  pygmy  tribe.  Ever  is  your  Mugwump  one  whose 
education  is  in  excess  of  his  capacity.  Your  Mugwump 
is  a  quart  of  whisky  in  a  pint  flask.  Or  he  is  a  No.  8 
foot  in  a  No.  6  shoe.  Also,  his  policy  is  to  leap  from  a 
window  rather  than  descend  by  the  stair.  Being 
critics,  no  brace  of  Mugwumps  may  be  found  who 
agree.  And,  being  of  a  reboant  herd,  the  uproar  of  their 
constant  bicker  resounds  afar.  Withal  mugwumpery 
is  brittle,  as  moods  of  self-fraud  ever  are,  and  breaks 
into  many  pieces.  There  are  the  mental  Mugwump, 
the  moral  Mugwump,  and  the  common  Mugwump  of 
political  commerce. 

That  validity  of  purpose  and  good-possible  of  mug- 
wumpery might  gain  display  with  the  story  of  a  con- 
versation as  it  befell  among  three.  The  trio  were  of 
the  genus  Mugwump,  species,  mental.  They  discussed 
matter,  extant  and  apparent  to  feel  and  smell  and 
taste,  as,  for  specimen,  the  earth. 

"  Matter  is  universal,"  remarked  the  first  Mugwump 
sagely. 

"  Not  so,"  quoth  Number  Two,  and  whose  mien  was 
the  mien  of  a  trained  sapiency — "  not  so;  matter  is 
diversal." 

"Pardon  me,"  observed  the  third,  and  he  was  of 
a  sagacity  with  the  others — "  pardon  me,  my  friends; 
matter  does  not  exist." 

And  these  Mugwumps  of  the  mental  were  dining  as 
deeply  as  ever  dined  farm-hand,  while  rhetoric  found 
tireless  coinage. 


MUGWUMPERY  DEBATES.  Itf 

As  one  gazed  and  heard,  it  was  forced  on  one 
that  this  dinner  and  discussion  of  three  sides— 
this  isosceles  triangle  of  mugwumpery — would  find 
parallel  in  the  collection  of  three  wise  fleas  on  the  back 
of  that  dog  whom  they  honored  with  their  inhabi- 
tation. 

"  Dog  is  universal,"  cries  the  first. 

"  Dog  is  diversal,"  shouts  the  second. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlefleas,"  breaks  in  the  third — he 
speaks  thickly  with  a  mouthful  of  dog — "  pardon  me; 
dog  does  not  exist/' 

Your  common,  practical,  everyday  intelligence  would 
pitch  its  camp  in  perfect  comfort  on  the  fact  of  dog;  it 
would  go  no  further.  'Not  so  the  Mugwump.  Discov- 
ering dog,  he  leaps  flashily  to  dog's  highest  point,  and 
from  there  goes  ballooning  off  and  aloft  to  the  utmost 
spaces  of  conjecturings.  Your  Mugwump  declaims  and 
chops  logic.  He  splits  hairs,  and  then  re-splits  the 
splints. 

Mugwumps  are  not  gregarious.  They  occur  no  more 
in  flocks  than  do  eagles — or  owls.  When  discovered  in 
council  or  convention,  as  they  sometimes  are,  one  is  to 
observe  that  your  Mugwump  is  not  gathered  unto  his 
kind  in  any  spirit  of  solidarity  or  fraternal  purpose. 
Each  Mugwump  attends,  riding  his  own  hobby,  and 
from  motives  self-exhibitory. 

Your  Mugwump  of  politics  is  solely  critical;  he  is 
not  initiative,  has  nothing  of  plan  nor  of  idea  where- 
with to  stoke  and  fire-up  a  future.  Your  political 
Mugwump  is  a  fault-finder;  and  born  with  his  face  to 
the  past,  he  never  turns  him  about.  He  passes  his 
existence,  as  Butler  once  said,  "  like  a  man  riding  back- 
ward in  a  carriage;  he  never  sees  a  thing  until  it's  by." 


148  RICHARD  CROKER. 

'Tis  a  harmless  and  not  ill-meaning  mammal,  however; 
and  it  is  by  no  means  settled  that  in  his  part  of  fault- 
finder your  Mugwump  does  not  serve  in  abatement  of 
that  roguery  which  goes  so  frequently  with  the  occu- 
pation of  place.  Elections  at  best  are  but  exercises  of 
dark  depression  and  dispirit;  the  one  thing  therein 
certain  is  that,  whosoever  may  win,  the  people  will 
lose;  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that,  with  such  the  situa- 
tion, your  Mugwump  comes  prettily  for  alleviation 
and  as  counter-irritant  to  general  ill.  He  produces 
nothing;  but  he  may  serve  to  some  least  degree  in 
prevention  of  the  wrong. 

Tammany — and  the  word  in  the  Indian  signifies 
"  affable  " — has  been  in  days  preterite  too  affable  for  its 
best  standing  in  "  society."  It  was  ever  friend  to  the 
common  borrel  folk.  It  was  not  of  the  dandies,  not  of 
the  macaroni,  and  did  not  smell  of  musk  and  attar  of 
roses  and  Fifth  Avenue.  It  has  lacked  sadly  in  a  spirit 
for  the  exclusive;  and  so  failing  of  patricianism,  it  has 
failed  also  of  ton.  Tammany  has,  by  these  traits 
of  the  common,  become  vulgar.  Therefore  it  abides 
the  natural  victim  of  never-flagging  slander  on  the 
essenced  and  fashionable  parts  of  our  local  aristocrats. 
And  be  it  known  that  your  nobility  slanders  with  skill. 
Vilification  is  the  born  weapon  of  an  aristocrat,  just 
as  is  poison  of  a  Turk. 

Tammany  is  a  "  machine  "  in  politics.  Likewise  is 
its  Eepublican  opponent.  Also,  there  is  a  Mugwump 
"  machine."  But  of  this  last  it  must  be  said  that  in  the 
congress  of  its  parts  there  is  so  much  of  misfit  and 
want  of  unity,  and  again  such  a  beggarly  absence  of 
both  oil  and  steam,  that  it  comes  to  be  a  ramshackle 
contrivance  of  neither  force  nor  direction,  and  falling 


TAMMANY  IS  NATURAL.  Hd 

at  once  into  its  hundred  incongruous  pieces  with  the 
earliest  shiver  of  real  effort. 

Whatever  of  effective  politics  exists  in  this  town — 
and  for  that  word,  in  the  nation — whether  of  Tam- 
many or  an  opposition  is  distinctly  the  politics  of  the 
"  machine."  One  sees  more  of  the  "  machine  "  in  the 
politics  of  a  city  than  in  regions  rural.  The  "ma- 
chine," in  its  best  flourishings  and  flowerings,  is  in- 
digenous to  urban  soil. 

In  either  the  theory  or  the  ethic  of  politics  the 
"  machine "  cannot  find  defense;  in  the  practice  of 
politics,  and  peculiarly  in  cities,  the  "  machine  "  cannot 
find  dispense.  That  is  because  both  theory  and  ethic 
deal  with  man  as  he  should  be,  while  practice  deals  with 
man  as  he  is.  And  hence  the  "  machine." 

It  is  worth  one's  attention  that  your  "  machine  "  is 
not  artificial;  it  constructs  itself,  and  comes  as  product 
of  conditions.  Tammany  Hall,  be  assured,  would  not 
have  lived  almost  a  century  and  a  quarter,  were  it  not 
of  vitality  inborn  and  of  itself.  Tammany  will  never 
be  "  uprooted  " — the  common  phrase  of  its  foes.  One 
would  as  easily  "  uproot "  the  East  Eiver.  The  roots 
of  Tammany,  and  with  them  the  roots  of  the  two 
counter  political  "  machines,"  are  the  roots  of  the  town 
itself.  The  day  of  the  town's  destruction  will  be  the 
day  of  theirs.  Each  will  ever  bear  the  others  company. 

Cities  are  inventions — the  inventions  of  the  farms. 
Being  invented,  cities  in  their  turn  invent.  And  one 
inevitable  upcome  of  a  city  is  "  machinism  "  in  poli- 
tics. Observe,  also,  as  proof  of  a  parentage;  there  are 
" machine"  vestiges  discoverable  in  bucolic  politics;  and 
among  your  agriculturists  there  dwell  shadowy  Tam- 
many Halls  of  hoop-pole  characteristics.  The  seeds 


of  the  "  machine J>  are  in  the  natural  man.  Hive  or 
herd  him  into  a  city,  and  behold  the  swelling  and  the 
bursting  and  the  sprouting  of  that  seed.  And  the 
blossom  is  such  as  Tammany. 

There  is  an  iron  constraint  to  be  the  attribute  of 
cities.  They  crowd  one's  morals  and  one's  politics  just 
as  they  crowd  one's  person;  and  even  Freedom  herself 
must  maintain  her  hands  in  her  pockets,  and  sit  with 
knees  clewed  to  chin,  while  in  your  city.  Folk  are 
thereby  fretted  into  the  anarchistic.  The  "  machine  " 
— even  the  poor  "  machine  "  of  the  incubated  Mug- 
wump— has  its  good.  It  is  in  perpetual  arms  political; 
and  it  acts  as  coast-guard  of  American  institutions. 
The  "  machine  "  makes  captive  the  ignorant,  the  an- 
archistic, and  the  unrepublican,  as  he  lands.  It  ties 
him  hand  and  foot  with  its  discipline  and  makes  him 
harmless.  As  a  suppressive  influence,  moving  for  pub- 
lic order  and  to  the  subjection  of  what  else  might  be  a 
mob  spirit  and  rise  to  become  those  small  first  gusts  of 
violence  which  unchecked  conflate  as  riots,  the  "  ma- 
chine" is  to  be  extolled. 

One  cause  of  a  disfavor  of  Tammany,  and  likewise  of 
all  "  machines/' — that  is  the  disfavor  felt  for  them  in 
the  land  at  rural  large, — lies  in  the  native  hatred  of  the 
country  for  things  urban.  The  farms  dislove  the 
cities;  the  country  glowers  at  the  town.  Clay,  in 
his  day,  failed  to  understand  this  sentiment  in 
its  existence.  In  the  third  Jackson  campaign,  Clay 
it  was  who  made  Jackson's  attack  upon  the  United 
States  Bank  an  issue.  Clay  reflected  that  the  bank 
was  a  great  Pennsylvania  corporation.  Clay  counted 
on  that  State  coming  to  the  rescue  of  its  child. 
But  Clay  was  all  abroad.  The  United  States  Bank 


PHILIP  HONE'S  DIARY.  151 

was  a  Philadelphia  rather  than  a  Pennsylvania  com- 
pany. And  the  country  hated  the  town.  The  Penn- 
sylvania rustic  went  against  the  Philadelphia-United 
States  Bank,  as  against  that  one  dear  foe  for  whom  he 
had  trained  and  waited.  And  he  heat  it  like  a  carpet. 

This  resentment  of  matters  metropolitan  burns 
in  every  country  heart.  Massachusetts  is  opposed  to 
Boston,  New  York  to  the  city  of  New  York,  Pennsyl- 
vania to  Philadelphia,  Maryland  to  Baltimore,  Illinois 
to  Chicago,  and  Missouri  to  St.  Louis.  The  country 
contemns  the  town;  and  this  feeling,  even  though  he 
who  entertains  it  be  of  kindred  politics  with  Tammany, 
lends  credulous  believing  ear  to  whatever  of  lie  the 
malice  or  policy  of  Tammany's  enemies  may  forge  to 
its  unfavor. 

Tammany  was  from  its  birth-bed  a  disturber  of 
Money  and  of  an  aristocracy.  This  was  true  when  in 
Adams'  White  House  time  it  toasted  France;  when 
later  it  with  Burr  defeated  Hamilton,  destroyed  his 
party  and  plowed  and  sowed  its  site  with  salt.  It  was 
true  of  Jackson's  day;  it's  as  true  of  this. 

Old  Philip  Hone's  diary,  a  personal  journal  kept 
during  the  thirties,  gives  one  a  murmur  of  how  Tam- 
many was  disesteemed  by  the  nobility  current  of  sixty 
years  and  more  ago.  Hone  was  rich  and  easy-going;  a 
worthy  old  gentleman,  indeed,  who  had  been  mayor, 
and  was  then  retired  from  both  business  and  politics, 
and  who  with  a  certain  Dr.  Hosack — in  attendance, 
thirty  years  before,  on  the  Burr-Hamilton  duel — di- 
vided and  did  the  society  honors  of  the  town.  The 
worthy  Hone's  strictures  on  Tammany  Hall  found 
birth  in  this  fashion:  The  Patroon  Eensselaer  owned  an 
estate,  embracing  about  eight  hundred  square  miles, 


152  RICHARD  CROKER. 

near  Albany.  This  estate  was  occupied  by  thousands 
of  tenant-farmers  and  mechanics,  for  the  most  part 
Dutch.  The  old  Patroon  died;  this  was  in  1839.  The 
tenants,  who  had  been  waiting  for  his  death,  arose  as 
one.  They  informed  the  heir,  a  Stephen  Rensselaer, 
that  he  was  not  to  patroon  it  over  them.  They  would 
buy  each  tenant  his  farm  or  his  house  at  its  value,  but 
they  would  pay  no  further  rent.  Neither  would  they 
submit  to  evictions.  The  new,  young,  little  Patroon, 
full  of  the  pride  of  inherited  millions,  refused  the  de- 
mands of  his  peasantry.  They  would  get  no  fee  simple 
from  him.  They  would  pay  rent  or  leave.  There- 
upon the  mutinous  Dutch  peasantry  deeply  armed 
themselves;  whereat  the  young  Patroon  cast  himself 
and  his  griefs  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Governor  and 
sobbed  for  troops. 

It  was  before  an  era  of  Cceur  d'Alenes,  and  Pull- 
mans, and  Standard  Oils,  and  money-festered  chief 
executives,  and  the  Governor  was  in  no  hurry  to 
send  troops.  He  would  wait  a  bit;  things  might  cool. 
They  cooled.  There  was  no  spilling  of  honest,  though 
turbulent,  Du£ch  blood.  The  young  Patroon  sold  to 
the  tenants,  and  peace  prevailed  in  that  Albany  region 
roundabout.  That  is  the  story;  here's  what  our  excit- 
able old  diarist  said  of  that  turmoil  and  the  attitude 
thereon  assumed  of  Tammany  Hall: 

"November,  1839.  A  most  outrageous  revolt  has 
broken  out  among  the  tenants  of  the  late  Patroon, 
General  Rensselaer,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Albany,  of 
a  piece  with  the  disorganizing  spirit  which  overspreads 
the  land  like  a  cloud  [the  spirit  of  Andrew  Jacksonism] 
and  daily  increases  in  darkness.  The  tenants  of  the 


WAR  ON  A  PATROON.  153 

manor  of  Van  Rensselaer,  which  is  in  extent  about 
twenty  miles  by  forty  miles  .  .  .  have  risen  en 
masse.  .  .  Dec.  12.  The  disturbances  in  the  Rensse- 
laer  manor  are  in  a  fair  way  of  settlement  without 
calling  in  the  aid  of  troops.  .  .  An  attempt  was  made 
during  the  course  of  the  affair  by  the  profligate  politi- 
cians [Democratic]  who  are  in  the  ascendant  in  this 
devoted  city,  to  get  up  a  meeting  of  Tammany  Hall  to 
express  their  horror  at  the  thought  of  troops  being  em- 
ployed to  shed  the  blood  of  their  fellow  citizens;  and 
to  raise  party  capital  by  condemning  the  measures 
adopted  by  the  Governor;  but  this  cankered  sore  of 
Jacobinical  corruption  [Tammany  Hall]  did  not  come 
to  a  head.  Their  hearts  were  black  enough.  .  ." 

There,  in  word  and  phrase,  reason  and  conclusion,  is  a 
fair  and  proper  example  of  the  fault  found  and  charges 
made  concerning  Tammany  Hall.  And  thus  it  has 
ever  been,  and  thus  it  is.  Tammany  Hall  is  made  up 
of  "profligate  politicians,"  it  is  in  all  and  sweeping 
things  a  "  cankered  sore  of  Jacobinical  corruption," 
and  of  those  to  form  its  membership  it  is  written 
that  "  their  hearts  were  black  enough  " — and  all  be- 
cause Tammany  Hall  would  meet  and  "  express  their 
horror  at  the  thought  of  troops  being  employed  to  shed 
the  blood  of  their  fellow  citizens." 

Unless  one  seeks  to  ship  a  cargo  of  untruth,  one 
should  take  sedulous  guard  as  against  stories  and  tales 
anent  Tammany  Hall.  They  will  have  origin  among 
Tammany's  foes — not  the  safest  historians — and  be 
commonly  the  offput  of  some  Grimm  of  the  Mugwumps, 
or  some  Hans  Christian  Andersen  of  the  Republicans. 
Your  world  general  believes  too  much  and  too  easily. 


154  RICHARD  CROKER. 

It  should  break  itself  of  this  habit  of  the  credulous.  If 
the  world  would  but  think  with  one-half  the  assiduity 
wherewith  it  listens,  it  would  not  so  often  be  cast  for 
the  "Simple  Simon"  role.  The  world  does  not  so  much 
as  understand  and  know  itself.  The  world  has  a  belief 
that  it  prefers  to  laugh.  The  world  is  in  error;  it  pre- 
fers to  shudder.  There  is  a  joy  in  dread  not  found  in 
pimple  pleasure.  The  world  would  sooner  wonder  than 
learn;  it  delights  in  amazement  rather  than  instruction. 
And  with  such  doting  care  does  it  conserve  its  wonder, 
so  zealously  does  it  resent  any  subtraction  from  its 
amazement,  that  his  reputation  is  made  unsafe  and  his 
name  despised  who  seeks  to  brush  aside  even  such  as  the 
myths  of  Pocahontas,  of  Tell,  of  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon,  or  of  King  Arthur  and  his  sword  Excalibur. 
It  isn't  religious  heat  that  stands  wrath-eyed  when  one 
disputes  the  story  of  the  prophet,  the  she-bears,  and 
the  devoured  gamins.  It  is  that  nursing  solicitude,  a 
first  trait  of  humanity,  for  the  Horrible-wonderful 
which  comes  screaming  to  its  protection. 

Verily!  the  world  believes  too  readily  and  with 
not  enough  of  challenge.  The  surest  countersign  to 
the  confidence  of  folk  is  a  tale  of  horror  or  wonder. 
And  believing  a  story  of  the  marvelous,  the  world,  go- 
ing a  next  step,  is  quick  to  name  it  miraculous  and  from 
the  blue  above,  or  what  further  mystic  thing  for  an 
origin  the  relater  declares.  One  touch  of  the  acid  of 
common  thought  would  show  of  these  miracles  and 
wonder  tales  their  bogus  character. 

Take  the  duel  between  David  and  Goliath.  That 
victory  of  David  comes  glancing  through  the  centuries. 
Hall-marked  as  a  miracle,  none  has  arisen  to  doubt 
nor  to  discover  the  foolish  falsity  of  that  marking. 


DAVID  AND  GOLIATH.  155 

Pause  for  one  moment;  bend  the  brow  of  considera- 
tion. By  partial  way  of  a  thought-help  gaze  on  Moreau's 
"David";  a  statue  which  has  fame.  What  is 
he?  A  young,  trained  athlete  in  swell  of  power 
and  swiftest  accuracy.  His  artillery  of  the  sling 
is  wrapped  to  his  strong  wrist.  He  can  hurl  there- 
from a  pebble  the  size  of  an  egg,  and  to  weigh  a 
pound,  with  the  force  of  a  bullet  and  the  certainty  of 
English  archery.  Alert,  nervous,  strung  like  a  bow, 
and  with  the  pliant  strength  of  a  sapling,  stands  David; 
courage  undauntable  beats  and  bounds  in  his  heart. 

Observe  Goliath;  the  ox-head  creature  who  has 
challenged  David.  Here  is  his  description  taken 
from  first  mouths.  "  And  he  had  an  helmet  of 
brass  upon  his  head,  and  he  was  armed  with  a  coat  of 
mail;  and  the  weight  of  the  coat  was  five  thousand 
shekels  of  brass.  And  he  had  greaves  of  brass  upon 
his  legs,  and  a  target  of  brass  between  his  shoulders. 
And  the  staff  of  his  spear  was  like  a  weaver's  beam;  and 
his  spear's  head  weighed  six  hundred  shekels  of  iron." 
Later,  when  David  beheads  him,  one  learns  that  he  has 
a  sword. 

Contrast  the  two.  Our  officious  giant,  a  lubber 
with  a  horse-load  of  brass  on  his  back,  and  another 
of  iron  in  his  hand,  shuffling  with  slow  and  snail-like 
difficulty,  and  never  a  weapon  save  clumsy  sword  and 
clumsier  spear.  And  neither  of  them  lethal  at  a  quar- 
tette of  yards.  David,  lean,  clean,  and  hawk-swift,  free 
and  afar  off;  equal  with  his  sling  to  death  and  doom 
within  a  radius  of  a  score  of  rods.  Is  one  to  find  the 
amazing-unexpected  in  the  ending?  Goliath,  fatuous 
Philistine!  never  owned  a  chance;  he  was  as  good  as 
dead  the  moment  the  match  was  made. 


156  RICHARD   CROEER. 

Tammany  Hall,  as  a  "machine/'  is  perfect.  With 
an  enlistment,  as  stated,  of  ninety  thousand,  it  has 
thirty-five  "  leaders,"  one  from  each  assembly  district; 
these  make  the  great  layer  of  power.  The  thirty-five 
"  leaders  "  select  a  finance  committee  of  five;  these  five 
name  their  chairman;  and  that  chairman  is  the  general 
in  command  of  the  organization.  Eichard  Croker  is 
the  present  chief;  John  Kelly  was  his  predecessor. 
Each  in  his  turn  deserved  his  elevation,  for  together 
they  rescued  Tammany,  after  years  of  conflict  with 
that  ogre  of  the  parties,  from  beneath  the  feet  of 
Tweed. 

Every  Tammany  "  leader  "  is  a  subchief  in  his  dis- 
trict. Under  him  he  has  a  "  captain  "  in  each  election 
precinct  of  his  district;  and  each  of  these  "  captains  " 
has  a  little  "  captain  "  under  his  orders  in  every  city 
block  of  his  precinct.  Thus  is  the  pyramid  of  Tam- 
many power  put  up.  First  a  base  of  ninety  thousand 
privates;  then  a  "  captain  "  for  each  city  block;  then 
a  "  captain  "  for  each  voting  precinct;  then  a  "  leader  " 
for  each  assembly  district;  then  a  finance  com- 
mittee of  five;  then  Eichard  Croker.  Aside  from 
the  ninety  thousand  enlisted  men,  who  represent 
a  "  regular  "  army  in  politics,  there  are  full  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  other  voters  held  within 
the  harness  of  Tammany  influence.  The  organi- 
zation has  its  main  home  in  Fourteenth  Street;  its 
property  there  is  worth  easily  a  million  of  dollars. 
Then  there  is  in  Fifth  Avenue  near  Fiftieth  Street  the 
Democratic  Club — practically  a  Tammany  Club — with 
a  membership  of  three  thousand,  with  real  estate  to  the 
value  of  three  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  of  money 
an  equal  amount  in  bank.  Each  "  leader  "  has  in  his 


THE   TAMMANY  FINANCES.  157 

district  a  club  and  a  clubhouse;  the  latter  often  of  a 
cost  to  touch  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

To  conduct  a  campaign  Tammany  Hall  expends  about 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars.  This  money  is  given 
out  the  night  before  an  election;  each  "  leader  "  having 
his  share.  The  wage  and  the  number  of  election 
workers  are  fixed.  There  are  to  be  ten  men  in  each 
voting  precinct  to  wear  the  badge  and  get  the  people  to 
the  polls.  These  receive  five  dollars  each,  or  fifty  dol- 
lars to  a  precinct,  or  over  seventy  thousand  dollars  for 
this  one  item  alone  covering  the  entire  town.  Then 
there  are  carriages  to  bring  the  lame,  the  halt,  and  the 
blind.  There  are  halls  to  rent,  and  fireworks  to  pur- 
chase, and  stands  to  put  up,  and  trucks  to  hire  for 
"  orators,"  in  the  three  or  four  weeks  of  a  canvass.  Told 
and  counted,  the  over-all  expense  clambers  to  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  This  sum  is  not  hard  to 
get.  Contributions  come  from  every  quarter;  some  of 
them  secret  and  not  caring  to  be  known. 

"  Sometimes  we  contribute  to  one  party,  sometimes 
to  the  other,  sometimes  to  both,"  said  Havemeyer  of  the 
Sugar  Trust  to  Gray's  Senate  Committee  a  quintette  of 
years  ago. 

This  practice  still  obtains  among  the  great  com- 
panies; and  the  point — strange  as  it  may  come  to  ears 
used  to  another  tale — the  point  with  Tammany  Hall 
is  the  point  of  not  getting  too  much.  There  are  hun- 
dreds to  whom  a  part  of  their  subscriptions  is  returned 
as  "  too  large,"  or  "  more  than  the  organization  needs." 

Following  an  election,  what  money  is  left  is  generally 
given  to  a  charity  or  to  some  cause  of  worth.  Within 
the  past  four  years  there  have  in  this  manner  gone,  to 
the  poor  of  this  town,  forty  thousand  dollars;  to  the 


158  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

cause  of  Cuba,  forty  thousand  dollars;  almost  as  much 
to  the  Galveston  sufferers;  almost  the  same  sum  to 
rear  a  monument  to  Parnell,  and  to  pay  the  mortgage 
on  the  Parnell  estates  in  Ireland  and  save  them  to  the 
family  of  that  dead  liberator.  Tammany  keeps  no 
books;  there's  no  way  of  discovering  who  gives  or  how 
much;  the  funds  are  banked  in  the  name  of  a  treasurer 
who  acts  as  secretary  to  draw  checks  and  aid  the  work 
of  the  finance  committee. 

That  is  the  money,  and  in  a  sense,  the  military  side 
of  Tammany  Hall.  There  is  still  another,  and  it  is  this 
latter  which  makes  it  well-nigh  impregnable  in  local 
affairs.  Tammany  is  a  political  organization  one  day 
in  the  year:  it  is  a  charitable-benevolent-fraternal  or- 
ganization three  hundred  and  sixty-five.  Does  a  brick- 
layer, or  carpenter,  or  laborer,  or  even  such  as  a  clerk 
or  a  bookkeeper  find  himself  minus  work,  he  goes  to  his 
"  leader."  One  may  meet  from  fifty  to  three  hundred 
of  these  out-of-work  folk  waiting  in  front  of  every 
"  leader's  "  house  each  morning.  And  the  "  leader," 
and  his  "  election  captains  "  under  him,  make  utmost 
effort  to  find  places  for  these  applicants.  The 
"  leaders  "  haunt  contractors  and  builders,  and  they 
trade  favors  for  places.  This  exchange  extends  to 
street  railway  companies,  express  companies,  and  scores 
of  other  enterprises.  The  man  offered  must  be  good 
and  capable  of  his  duties;  that  is  what  the  company  or 
the  contractor  demands.  Satisfaction  achieved  in  these 
directions,  the  "  leader  "  may  send  the  candidate. 

On  their  parts  the  contractors  and  companies  call  on 
the  "leaders,"  whom  they  have  thus  aided  with  situ- 
ations for  folk  out  of  work,  to  gain  them  what  of 
leniency,  forbearance,  or  favor  they  may  require  from 


VISIT  THE  POLICE  COURT.  159 

time  to  time  of  city  departments  such,  as  the  street,  the 
park,  the  health,  and  variously  the  other  boards  among 
which  the  control  of  the  town  is  lodged.  In  positions 
other  than  ones  of  office,  it  is  not  an  overstatement  to 
say  that  Tammany  Hall  places  and  keeps  thirty-five 
thousand  souls  to  that  work  wherewith  they  earn  their 
daily  bread. 

Again,  go  into  one  of  the  numberless  police  courts  of 
the  town.  "  Ten  dollars  or  twenty  days  on  the 
Island,"  mumbles  the  magistrate,  and  the  poor  wretch 
is  shoved  aside  without  two  bits  in  the  present,  and  the 
workhouse  filling  the  future  dead-ahead.  Just  as  you 
feel  your  sympathies  at  work  for  the  puny  malefactor 
who  for  want  of  ten  dollars  must  serve  in  captivity  for 
twenty  days,  a  cool  person,  well  clad  and  business-like, 
pushes  up  to  the  clerk.  He  doesn't  give  the  prisoner 
a  look;  often  he  doesn't  know  him,  save  by  word  of  his 
undercaptains.  "  Figure  up  that  man's  fine  and  costs," 
he  observes  to  the  clerk.  It  is  done;  it  is  then  paid  by 
the  cool  man,  who  walks  away  with  no  more  of  notice 
to  the  liberated  one  than  mayhap  a  nod  of  short  indif- 
ference. It  is  all  cold  and  commonplace  as  a  brief 
piece  of  political  business.  The  cool  person  who  pays 
feels  no  glow  as  one  who  does  a  charity,  for  he  performs 
the  ceremony,  on  an  average,  full  two  hundred  times  a 
month.  Nor  does  the  beneficiary  of  his  interference 
boil  with  any  turbulence  of  obligation.  It  is  what  he 
looked  for.  The  "  leader "  pays  the  fine  with  the 
thought  that  our  soiled  and  broken  gentleman,  in 
present  peril  of  the  Island,  will  vote  "right"  next 
time.  And  the  soiled  one  does,  when  the  time  arrives. 
And  why  should  he  not?  It  is  the  commonest,  kind- 
liest animalism  to  be  friend  to  one's  friends. 


160  RICHARD  CROKER. 

There  is  one  last  feature  of  a  Tammany  political  edu- 
cation that  is  worth  a  note.  It  is  meant  to  guard 
the  Tammany  vote  from  purchase  by  its  million- 
owning  enemies.  It  has  quiet  teaching  among  the 
lower  stratum, — and  the  "  precinct  captains  "  are,  com- 
monly speaking,  the  teachers, — that  it  is  a  brave,  good 
deed,  by  any  hook  or  crook,  to  get  all  the  money  from 
the  opposition  that  the  rich  and  credulous  foe  will  part 
withal.  Promise  to  vote  the  opposition  ticket,  promise 
anything,  and  get  the  money;  that  is  the  quiet  instruc- 
tion. Then  break  the  promise  and  vote  with  Tam- 
many Hall. 

"  We  have  to  do  this,"  explained  a  "  leader,"  "  in 
order  to  protect  ourselves.  The  opposition  is  sure  to 
try  and  buy  our  votes.  Now  if  we  frightened  these 
'  sell-outs,'  and  led  them  to  think  we'd  call  it  a  crime 
if  we  found  them  with  Mugwump  money  in  their  hands, 
or  discovered  them  in  close  confab  with  a  Republican, 
we'd  lose  a  lot  of  men.  They  would  take  the  other 
fellow's  money;  and  then  they  would  feel  guilty  and  be 
afraid  to  come  back  to  us.  And  there  you  are.  Two 
to  one  they  would  make  good,  and  vote  the  Mugwump 
or  Eepublican  ticket.  So  we  teach  people  of  the  ' sell- 
out '  stripe  that,  so  far  from  finding  fault  with  them 
for  getting  money  from  the  opposition,  it's  the  acme  of 
cunning  and  a  feather  in  their  caps.  The  result  is  that 
not  one  of  them  can  be  bought.  At  the  same  time  they'll 
take  the  money  off  you  so  fast  you'll  catch  cold.  They 
return  and  brag  to  us  of  the  hauls  they  make.  I've 
seen  time  and  again  dozens  of  my  own  men,  with  Mug- 
wump or  Republican  badges  on,  *  working '  at  the  polls. 
No;  of  course  they  were  all  right.  They  voted  with  me 
each  time.  But  they  took  as  much  of  the  other  side's 


EABTLEY  CAMPBELL'S  APOTHEGM.  161 

money  as  was  handed  out.  It's  the  only  way  for  us  to 
keep  from,  losing  twenty  thousand  votes  in  this  town. 
Make  them  understand  that  it's  all  right  to  take  the 
other  fellow's  money;  that  you  like  them  the  better 
for  it." 

Well,  well,  well!  One  isn't  sure  whether  one  has 
been  in  the  mud  or  on  the  grass  during  the  last  ten 
minutes.  Decision,  doubtless,  as  in  other  matters,  will 
wait  on  the  point  of  view.  "  Fame  and  infamy! "  ob- 
served Bartley  Campbell  in  his  play  of  "  Clio  " — and 
the  great  dramatist  was  in  a  frame  of  wisdom — "  fame 
and  infamy!  It  takes  a  sound  philosopher  to  mark 
the  line  that  separates  the  two." 


XL 


ONE    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 

Necessity,  them  best  of  Peace-makers, 
As  well  as  surest  prompter  of  invention, 
Help  us  to  composition  ! 

— Anonymous. 

HEAVENS!  how  one  hates  to  begin!  One's  mind  is 
like  unto  some  truant  fowl  of  the  air,  with  spread 
pinions  circling  and  whirling,  and  whirling  and  circling, 
without  being  brought  to  perch  on  anything.  Work  is 
a  bore  and  tasks  are  loathly  matters.  And  to  write  a 
book  is  to  work.  Still,  why  should  there  be  such  toil 
and  travail  thereover?  Is  it  better  to  build  a  book 
than  to  make  a  coat?  Your  tailor  would  not  say  so. 
Also,  he  might  exclaim  that  those  who  make  only 
books  run  but  starved  bills  with  him. 

Yet  a  book  is  a  good  thing;  that  is  a  good  book.  It 
shall  abide  a  keener,  longer  wearing  than  a  coat. 
"Allah's  three  greatest  gifts,"  says  the  Mussulman — 
"  Allah's  three  greatest  gifts  to  man  are  a  horse,  a 
woman,  and  a  book."  The  last  is  the  best,  and  that 
false  Paynim  should  have  given  it  the  right  of  the  line. 
A  book  is  best;  one  may  take  it  up  with  no  fear  of  a 
runaway,  and  put  it  aside  without  proceedings  in  court. 
A  book  makes  life  worth  living.  Without  it  the  play 
might  scarce  be  worth  the  candle.  One's  mind  goeth 
forth  as  the  dove  from  the  ark  and  findeth  no  rest  for 
the  sole  of  its  foot.  The  book  arises  and  offers  that 

162 


FOPPINGTON  ON  BOOKS.  163 

lacking  repose.  True!  there  be  those  to  dislike  a  book, 
others  to  deride  it.  Such  last  was  Lord  Foppington  in 
Vanbrugh's  "  Eelapse ";  a  most  witty  and  licentious 
comedy,  this  last,  and  therefore  one  much  dog-eared 
and  worn  of  its  leaves. 

Said  my  Lord  Foppington:  "  To  mind  the  inside  of  a 
book  is  to  entertain  one's  self  with  the  forced  product 
of  another  man's  brain.  Now  I  think  a  man  of  quality 
and  breeding  may  be  much  amused  with  the  natural 
sprouts  of  his  own." 

Lord  Foppington  never  read  a  book;  perhaps,  how- 
ever, he  solaced  himself,  when  not  on  the  painted, 
peruked,  and  powdered  warpath  of  his  fopperies,  with 
meditation.  And  meditation,  like  a  book,  belongs 
under  the  caption  of  good  things.  One  may  not  be  a 
philosopher,  but  one — all  of  us,  in  amiable  verity — may 
be  a  meditator;  which  is  to  be  a  dwarf  philosopher  in  a 
dwindled  way.  Your  meditator,  be  he  puny,  has 
thoughts  in  knickerbockers;  your  philosopher  is  the 
grown  Anak  of  thought,  profound  of  mental  chest  and 
a  clothyard  wide  i'  th'  shoulders. 

Work,  work,  work!  and  what  is  the  call  for  it?  Man 
is  spurred  to  work  by  the  sharp  and  lancing  rowel  of 
his  wants.  And  what  are  his  wants?  Food  and  sleep 
and  warmth  and  shelter — his  board  and  his  bed  and 
his  clothes  and  his  roof.  He  who  toils  beyond  the  ac- 
quirement of  these  works  foolish  overtime.  'Sure,  folk 
do.  They  go  on  heaping  millions  on  millions — Pelion 
upon  Ossa  to  reach  what  gods  they  know  not — and 
ache,  sweat,  and  swear  with  the  pain  of  the  effort 
withal.  Once  I  asked  a  multiplied  millionaire — he  was 
one  who  in  the  name  of  nitrate  had  exploited  nations, 
and,  like  some  weasel  of  commerce,  sucked  the  yolk  from 


164  RICHARD   CROKER. 

the  egg  of  more  than  one  South  American  state — who 
at  the  age  of  sixty-five,  with  digestion  spoiled  and  slum- 
bers broken  by  robberies  feared  as  well  as  robberies 
planned — he  called  them  "  business  " — was  still  in  the 
acrid  thick  of  his  dollar-getting,  why  he  so  struggled 
for  more  money?  I  recounted  his  age  and  his  millions, 
and  his  dissatifying  dyspepsia. 

"  Why  do  you/'  quoth  I — "  why  do  you  chase  dollars 
when  you  have  four-hundred-fold  enough  for  every  day 
that's  left  you,  and  the  most  extravagant  gilding 
thereof?  Why  do  you  do  this  thing?  " 

"  That  calls  for  reflection  to  make  the  answer,"  and 
my  man  of  many  millions  swung  to  the  tiller  of  thought. 
"  If  you  will  tell  me,"  he  continued  presently,  "  why  a 
dog  will  chase  the  hundredth  rabbit,  I'll  reply  to  your 
question.  The  dog  doesn't  need  the  rabbit.  He  will 
even  abandon  it  dead  on  the  ground  to  any  who  may 
find  and  care  to  lift  it,  once  it  be  overtaken  by  him  and 
killed.  The  dog  drops  it  from  his  memory  when,  cap- 
tured and  slain,  he  lets  it  fall  from  his  mouth.  Yet 
that  dog,  at  the  heel  of  the  hunt  or  at  the  last  of  his 
life,  will  chase  his  ultimate  rabbit — and  it  may  be  his 
millionth — with  as  much  of  anxiety  to  overtake  it  as 
though  it  were  the  first  he'd  ever  seen.  As  I  stated; 
when  you  tell  me  why  your  dog  pursues  that  last  rab- 
bit which  he  doesn't  need,  I'll  explain  to  you  why  your 
millionaire  struggles  for  that  other  dollar  that  he  can- 
not want."  And  then  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
laughed.  It  was  shrill  and  high  and  hard,  that  laugh 
— a  lupine  laugh.  So  have  I  heard  a  wolf — that  gray 
"business  man" — laugh  in  the  still  midnight  of  our 
Western  plains. 

One  may  observe  here,  what  I  didn't  say  to  my  mil- 


THE  ARROW  IN  THE  AIR.  165 

lionaire,  and  that  is  that  while  his  foregoing  may  be 
called  and  indeed  may  be  an  explanation,  it  is  not  one 
which  should  prevent  the  issuance  of  a  commission  of 
lunacy  based  on  that  shattered  moral  intelligence  of 
which  his  dollar-chasing,  when  dollars  are  grown  use- 
less to  him,  would  amply  evidence  the  existence. 

One  works  to  live,  and  life  is  no  such  lesson  of  suc- 
cess at  best  as  to  justify  any  heart-breaking  or  nerve- 
gnawing  strife  for  its  propping.  Life  is  but  an  arrow 
in  the  air.  Shot  by  some  sightless  archery  of  nature, 
each  of  us  is  projected  upward  towards  the  skies. 
None  reaches  them;  some  soar  higher  and  some  with 
weaker  flight,  and  each  comes  clattering  back  to  bury 
himself  in  the  earth  as  if  the  grave  were  the  bull's-eye 
aimed  at.  Or  life  is  as  a  flying  fish,  that  springs  from 
the  coastless  ocean  of  the  infinite,  and  skims  and  squat- 
ters for  fifty  or  mayhap  a  hundred  feet  along  the 
surface,  to  plump  at  the  last  and  forever  into  some  bil- 
low of  oblivion. 

But  whether,  in  the  fact  of  one's  life,  one  is  compara- 
ble with  an  arrow,  or  a  flying  fish,  or  with  some  addled 
spaniel  which  chases  its  tail  and  so  gives  one  an  exhibi- 
tion of  much  motion  with  no  progress  ^ne  can  never  be 
more  than  content.  There  was  a  well-lined  genius 
yclept  Lubbock,  a  Sir  John  he  was,  who  wrote  a 
volume,  the  "  Pleasures  of  Life."  And  Lubbock  did 
very  well  for  one  who  missed  his  purpose.  Pleasure 
pivots  and  centers  on  a  good  stomach,  and  Lubbock 
didn't  lay  stress  enough  on  that  fact.  Happiness 
comes  from  within,  when  one  talks  of  a  birth,  and  once 
the  four  cardinal  demands  of  food  and  warmth  and 
clothes  and  roof  are  replied  to,  will  never  be  far  away. 
Surely,  happiness  does  not  depend  on  much  money,  and 


166  RICHARD  CROKER. 

too  often  finds  in  riches  its  murderer.  How  do  I  know? 
Walk  out  and  look  about  you;  Third  Avenue  is  having 
a  better  time  than  Fifth.  Happiness  has  no  purse; 
and  so,  to  be  alliterative,  you  find  misery  in  a  man- 
sion while  hilarity  hails  you  from  a  hut. 

But,  alas  and  alack!  one  must  pull  up.  Posting  and 
pounding  ahead  on  the  courser  of  one's  shaggy,  lum- 
bering, thick-legged,  uncurried  fancy  may  be  very  well, 
but  it  in  no  sort  shortens  one's  task.  One  is  no  nearer 
the  heels  of  this  volume  than  one  was  an  hour  ago.  It 
is  wiser,  since  work  one  must,  to  regather  about  the 
subject  of  Tammany  Hall,  and  commit  one's  self  to 
currents  of  narrative  which  count  for  a  shortening 
of  this  voyaging. 

Tammany  Hall  may  with  strict  justice  make  one 
mighty  claim  for  itself  as  a  powerful  and  long-standing 
fortress  in  politics.  It  was  Tammany  Hall  that  a  full, 
round  century  ago  gave  to  the  Democratic,  party  its 
first  national  victory,  and  to  the  country  Thomas 
Jefferson  as  its  President.  Tammany  took  the  first 
steps  as  a  social-benevolent  organization.  Within  a 
handful  of  years  it  began  to  be  assertive  in  politics. 

Tammany  Hall,  as  written  before,  was  ever  an  object 
of  aversion  to  those  who  were  or  would  be  aristo- 
cratic. Tammany  had  its  conception  among  the 
masses;  its  first  membership  was  drawn  from  those  who 
had  been  private  soldiers  in  the  war  of  Eevolution. 
The  object  was  to  upbuild  an  order  against  the  Cin- 
cinnati; which  latter,  organizing  just  before  and  re- 
garding itself  as  an  order  of  American  nobility,  was 
close  in  its  membership,  and  felt  about  for  its  starched 
and  perfumed  support  among  those  rich,  and  who  had 
been  officers  of  the  Continental  army.  Founded  in 


ANCIENT  TAMMANY  TOASTS.  167 

such  feeling,  Tammany  couldn't  in  the  very  sap  of 
things  refrain  long  from  an  enlistment  in  those  forays 
of  politics  which,  one  hundred  years  ago,  were,  if  any- 
thing, more  bitter  than  they  are  to-day. 

In  those  last  four  years  when  Washington  prevailed 
as  President,  and  France  was  tooth  and  claw  in  mortal 
strife  with  England,  the  question  American  became: 
"  Shall  we  aid  France  as  fifteen  years  ago  she  aided 
us?"  And  general  sentiment  divided.  Washington 
was  against  aid,  Jefferson  was  for  it;  and  Tammany, 
hating  England,  took  side  with  Jefferson.  The  Tam- 
many position  had  setting  forth  in  those  toasts  offered 
at  its  banquet  of  1796,  whereof  the  following  is  a  list. 
The  festival  was  in  celebration  of  English  evacuation 
of  the  city,  and  the  sentiments  offered  read  as  follows: 

"  The  people  of  the  United  States  and  their  Presi- 
dent. 

"  The  virtuous  Congress  of  1776  who  decreed  the 
freedom  of  three  millions  of  their  fellow  citizens,  thou- 
sands of  whom  afterwards  sealed  it  with  their  blood. 

"  The  republic  of  France.  May  the  wisdom  and 
energy  of  her  counsels  confound  and  dismay,  while  her 
armies  and  navy  overwhelm  and  annihilate  her  enemies. 

"  Spain,  and  those  other  powers  who  have  acknowl- 
edged the  republics  of  America,  France,  and  Holland. 
May  they  be  an  example  to  those  despots  of  the  world 
who  are  yet  blind  to  the  happiness  of  the  human  race. 

"  A  lasting  peace,  founded  on  the  basis  of  equal 
rights  to  the  belligerent  powers  of  Europe;  may  they 
never  more  unsheathe  the  sword  in  defense  of  des- 
potism. 

"  Citizens  Jourdan,  Buonaparte,  Moreau,  Bournon- 
ville,  and  the  other  brave  officers  and  soldiers  of  the 


168  RICHARD   CROKER. 

French  armies;  success  to  their  arms,  and  may  their 
exertions  secure  the  constitution  and  liberties  of  the 
French  republic. 

"  Success  and  prosperity  to  all  who  contend  for  the 
equal  rights  of  men. 

"  May  the  late  infamous  British  treaty  be  expunged 
from  the  laws  of  our  land. 

"  Eternal  love  and  gratitude  to  the  French  nation; 
may  the  men  who  would  connect  us  with  Great  Britain 
justly  incur  the  resentment  of  every  genuine  American. 

"  The  voluntary  exiles  of  our  city  and  country  who 
sacrificed  their  all  to  establish  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence. 

"  The  memory  of  those  American  citizens  who  fell 
martyrs  to  the  cause  of  our  country;  may  we  never  for- 
get to  celebrate  their  glorious  deeds. 

"  May  the  '  exercise  of  heels '  so  nobly  displayed  on 
the  25th  of  November,  1783  (Evacuation  Day),  be  for- 
ever improved  to  the  advantage  of  the  [Democrats] 
^Republicans. 

"  The  American  fair.  May  their  smiles  be  propi- 
tious to  the  cause  of  freedom  and  their  approbation  be 
only  bestowed  on  the  friends  of  their  country. 

"  A  speedy  evacuation  of  the  city  by  all  Tories, 
royalists,  and  British  emissaries;  may  their  retreat  be 
to  the  tune  of  '  Yankee  Doodle.' 

"  May  the  tricolor  flag  soon  wave  in  triumph  on  the 
Tower  of  London,  and  may  the  oppressed  citizens  of 
Britain  regain  their  lost  rights  and  enjoy  perpetual 
freedom. 

"  The  day  we  celebrate;  may  we  ever  remember  the 
greasy  flagstaff  and  the  triumph  of  Liberty." 

Those  were  the  sentiments  of  Tammany  Hall  in 


JACKSON'S  PICTURE.  169 

1796;  they  are  still  her  sentiments,  as  witness  some 
recent  resolutions,  not  to  say  money  contributions,  in 
succor  of  a  Boer  republic  beset  of  the  English;  and  a 
yesterday  failure  to  half-mast  the  city's  flag  on  the 
occasion  of  a  royal  funeral. 

In  the  four  years  between  the  day  of  these  toasts  and 
the  election  of  1800,  when  Adams  went  down  before 
Jefferson,  and  pure  Democracy  set  its  heel  on  the  neck 
of  Federalism,  there  were  a  half  dozen  great  minds  busy 
with  the  separation  of  American  sentiment  into  parties. 
The  elder  Adams  was  President;  Jefferson  was  the  over- 
shadowing name  in  Virginia  and  the  South;  Hamilton, 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury  while  Jefferson  was  Secre- 
tary of  State  for  Washington,  hitherto  dictator  in 
New  York,  was  being  bluntly  met  in  the  lists  of  politics 
by  Aaron  Burr;  and  Jackson,  on  the  threshold  of  Con- 
gress, was  just  taking  his  first  step  in  affairs. 

Speaking  of  the  latter,  Gallatin  remembers  him  of 
that  time,  "  as  a  tall,  lank,  uncouth-looking  personage, 
with  long  locks  of  hair  hanging  over  his  face,  and  a 
queue  down  his  back  tied  with  an  eel-skin;  his  dress 
singular,  his  manners  and  deportment  those  of  a  rough 
backwoodsman."  Poor  Jackson!  His  dress  and  de- 
portment no  more  suited  the  taste  of  the  Federal  Tur- 
veydrops,  than  did,  thirty-five  years  after,  his  admin- 
istration of  economy,  and  the  cutting  out  of  that  public 
cancer  the  United  States  (Biddle)  Bank  delight  the 
Whigs.  Uncouth  and  awkward  indeed  he  was.  And 
singularly  so  did  the  British  at  New  Orleans,  and  the 
Calhoun  rebellionists  of  the  thirties,  discover  him. 

John  Adams  was  President,  the  man  of  whom  Frank- 
lin wrote,  "  He  is  always  honest,  sometimes  great,  but 
often  mad."  The  vigors  of  Washington  had  ceased. 


170  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Adams  and  Alexander  Hamilton  were  the  controlling 
spirits  of  the  Federalists;  and  because  that  party  was 
in  power,  of  the  nation  also.  The  Federalists  were  the 
party  of  the  money  interests  and  of  the  aristocracy. 
They  believed  .in  American  independence;  but  their 
leaders  at  least  stopped  there  and  did  not  believe  in 
American  republicanism.  This  was  peculiarly  true  of 
Hamilton,  who  referred  to  the  organic  law  of  this  coun- 
try as  "that  crazy  old  hulk  of  a  Constitution";  and 
finally,  disappointed  of  his  prophecies  of  coming  crash, 
and  defeated  of  his  New  York  autocracy  by  Burr,  and 
Tammany  Hall,  and  of  his  national  supremacy  by 
Jefferson  in  1800,  wrote  wailingly  to  a  friend:  "I'm 
not  the  man  for  America;  I  never  was." 

Certainly  your  rough,  rude  Democrats,  such  as 
thronged  the  corridors  of  Tammany  Hall,  and  who  fol- 
lowed Jefferson  and  Jackson  and  Burr  to  ballot-battle, 
each  in  his  region,  were  far  from  being  favorites  among 
those  who  professed  the  super-delicacy  and  disesteem  of 
the  vulgar  which  were  so  eminent  in  that  English  no- 
bility they  with  servile  sedulity  admired  and  imitated. 
The  rich,  who  in  that  New  York  day  as  in  this  were 
the  "respectable,"  were  Federalists  to  a  gentleman. 
The  poor — what  portion  the  rich  and  "respectable" 
didn't  buy  nor  browbeat — the  poor,  who  then  as  now 
were  the  "vulgar,"  were  Democrats  and  Tammany 
men  to  a  man.  And  these  lines  of  separation  ran  even 
into  literature;  such  as  Washington  Irving  and  Feni- 
more  Cooper — although  these  two  came  notably  into 
the  light  a  bit  later — and  others  of  the  guild  of  scrib- 
blers, with  wit  enough  to  locate  the  butter  on  their 
bread,  were  Federalists. 

That  high  disregard  of  a  hobnailed  Democracy  burned 


JOHN  J.  SCANNELL. 


MARTHA   WASHINGTON'S  MAGE.  171 

now  and  again  in  social  life,  and  it  was  Martha  Wash- 
ington, our  own  country's  mother,  who,  on  coming  into 
the  room  to  give  some  order  about  Mistress  Nellie 
Custis'  music  lesson,  had  her  eye  anger-riveted  to  an 
oily  spot  on  her  wall  paper,  left  by  some  visiting  head 
more  laden  of  bear's  grease  than  prudence. 

"  What  is  that?  "  demanded  the  indignant  housewife, 
and  her  scorn-shaken  finger  was  pointed  at  the  spot. 
"What  is  that?  A  grease  spot!  Some  low,  dirty 
Democrat  left  that;  no  Federal  would  have  done  it." 

Some  sign  of  that  day's  feeling,  and  of  those  near 
years  to  follow  Independence,  may  be  discovered  in 
what  Jefferson  writes  concerning  it.  Jefferson  was 
one  known  for  his  honesty.  "  Thought  expands, 
action  narrows,"  says  Goethe,  and  Jefferson  was  a  phi- 
losopher. Wise,  thoughtful,  Jefferson  was  decisively 
not  the  man  of  action.  But  he  read,  and  he  dwelt,  and 
he  traveled,  and  he  witnessed,  and  he  turned  matters 
over  in  his  deep,  clear,  transparent  mind.  His  was  a 
genius  of  many  sides,  and  Jefferson  had  rank  as  a  states- 
man, a  scholar,  a  philosopher,  a  litterateur,  a  traveler, 
an  architect,  an  inventor,  a  farmer,  and  he  even  played 
on  a  fiddle.  Jefferson  conceived  and  drew  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  At  the  same  time  he  accom- 
plished and  gave  to  posterity  another  and  as  great  a 
work.  It  was  Jefferson  who  invented  and  made  a 
draught  of  the  present  mold-board  of  the  plow,  which 
implement  before  had  been  a  clumsy,  unshapen, 
steel-shod  wedge  of  wood;  and  it  was  under  his  eye, 
and  by  his  blacksmiths  in  his  forge  at  Shadwell,  that 
the  first  scientific  furrow-turner  was  beaten  and  ground 
and  filed  and  polished  into  shape. 

Jefferson  believed  in  the  people.     Bred  and  born  an 


1V2  RICHARD   CROKER. 

aristocrat,  he  denied  caste.  More  than  Washington 
even,  he  was  the  real  American.  Jefferson  read  and 
thought  and  wrote.  He  liked  not  muscle-labor  and  was 
with  no  army.  His  sole  taste  of  war  was  when  Tarle- 
ton's  cavalry  made  an  occasional  raid  against  Monti- 
cello  with  a  hope  of  taking  prisoner  the  philosopher 
of  freedom.  Jefferson  never  made  a  speech;  which 
fact  should  prove  encouraging  to  ones  in  politics  whose 
thought  hesitates  at  hopes  of  fame  because  they  are 
not  Ciceros.  Jefferson  was  in  France  following  our 
Eevolution.  He  not  alone  experienced  those  in  power; 
he  went  into  the  cabins  of  the  peasantry.  He  talked 
with  the  poor,  looked  in  the  pot  to  discover  the  dinner 
cooking,  sat  on  the  bed  to  note  its  hard  uncomf  ort,  ate 
of  the  sour,  black  bread  which  mothers  fed  to  their 
children.  Jefferson  heard  the  story  of  the  peasants. 
He  returned  among  the  governing  classes,  and  sound- 
ing the  skimmish  shallows  of  their  intelligences,  decided 
against  the  folly  of  heaping  importance  on  idiots." 

When  Jefferson  returned  from  abroad  he  was  a  warm 
believer  in  the  cause  of  liberty  in  France  and  the  French 
Revolution;  a  movement  of  politics  wherein  Adams  and 
Hamilton  beheld  nothing  to  love.  Adams  and  Hamil- 
ton hated  Thomas  Paine;  Jefferson  admired  him  and 
read  his  "  Eights  of  Man  "  with  applause. 

Paine's  pamphlet  is  doubtless  the  document  invin- 
cible, and  so  I  hold  myself.  Yet  I've  often  thought,  as 
I  glanced  it  through,  that  had  the  Thetford  corset- 
maker  written,  instead  of  its  present  head,  the  "  Eights 
of  Dogs,"  or  the  "  Eights  of  Kine,"  and  then  gone  over 
his  production  with  a  blue  pencil,  editing  in  the  "  ani- 
mal "  and  editing  out  the  "  man,"  it  would  all  come  just 
as  true. 


JEFFERSON  ON  HAMILTON.  173 

By  what  title  does  your  man  gain  more  of  right  than 
your  animals?  and  from  whom  comes  to  him  a  fran- 
chise, wider,  deeper,  better  than  theirs?  Surely  he  has 
no  favor  from  nature  beyond  what  are  the  plain  legacies 
of  both  dog  and  ox.  He  starves  where  they  starve, 
burns  where  they  burn,  freezes  where  they  freeze, 
drowns  where  they  drown,  and  the  wound  that  lets  out 
their  life  lets  out  his.  It  is  only  our  vanity  which 
prates  of  superior  or  peculiar  rights  inherent  in,  and  of 
nature's  conference  on  man.  Nature  has  no  favorites, 
and  all  her  children,  biped  and  quadruped,  and  even  the 
poor  footless  worm,  are  equal  in  her  sight.  Nature  be- 
lieves that  might  makes  right,  and  what  privileges  are 
nature-granted  to  the  individual  animal,  man  or  what 
you  will,  find  suggestion  and  measurement  when  one 
searches  the  limits  of  that  individual's  strength. 
Might  makes  right;  it  is  the  law.  It  does  not  follow 
that  wherever  there  is  conflict  there  is  wrong.  Both 
sides  may  be  right,  and  more  often  than  otherwise  they 
are.  It's  like  two  hands  of  cards;  both  are  right,  one 
is  beaten  and  the  other  wins.  But  we  go  astray;  let  us 
scramble  back  to  the  towpath  of  our  task. 

Jefferson  was  called  into  Washington's  Cabinet  and 
given  the  portfolio  of  State.  As  a  lamp  by  the  light  of 
which  the  political  thought  of  that  day  may  be  glanced 
over,  one  may  turn  to  what  Jefferson  writes  concerning 
it.  Also  one  will  therefrom  gain  some  reading  of  the 
inner  sentiments  of  those  Federal  leaders,  Hamilton 
and  Adams. 

"  I  returned  from  the  French  mission,"  says  Jeffer- 
son, "in  the  year  of  the  new  government,  .  .  .  and 
proceeded  to  New  York  in  March,  1790,  to  enter  upon 
the  office  of  Secretary  of  State.  I  found  a  state  of 


174  RICHARD  CROKER. 

things  which  of  all  I  ever  contemplated  I  the  least  ex- 
pected. .  .  Politics  was  the  chief  topic,  and  a  prefer- 
ence of  kingly  over  republican  government  was  evi- 
dently the  favorite  sentiment.  .  .  I  found  myself  for 
the  most  part  the  only  advocate  on  the  republican  side 
of  the  question." 

It  was  at  a  Cabinet  dinner,  and  Jefferson  records  this 
conversation  between  the  king-loving  Hamilton  and  the 
king-bedazzled  Adams.  Jefferson  says: 

"  After  the  cloth  was  removed,  conversation  by  some 
circumstance  was  led  to  the  British  Constitution. 
Adams  observed,  l  Purge  that  Constitution  of  its  cor- 
ruption, and  give  to  its  popular  branch  equality  of 
representation,  and  it  would  be  the  most  perfect  Con- 
stitution ever  devised  by  the  wit  of  man.' 

"  Hamilton  paused  and  said, '  Purge  it  of  its  corrup- 
tion, and  give  to  its  popular  branch  equality  of  repre- 
sentation, and  it  would  become  an  impracticable  gov- 
ernment: as  it  stands  at  present,  with  all  its  supposed 
defects,  it  is  the  most  powerful  government  that  ever 
existed'  .  .  .  Hamilton  was  indeed  a  singular  char- 
acter. Of  acute  understanding,  disinterested,  honest, 
and  honorable  in  all  private  transactions,  amiable  in 
society,  and  duly  valuing  virtue  in  private  life,  yet  was 
he  so  bewitched  and  perverted  by  the  British  example 
as  to  be  under  thorough  conviction  that  corruption  was 
essential  to  the  government  of  a  nation.  Adams  had 
originally  been  a  Eepublican;  the  glare  of  royalty  and 
nobility  during  his  mission  to  England  had  made  him 
believe  their  fascination  a  necessary  ingredient  of  gov- 
ernment." 

There  is  a  comparison  made  by  that  best  of  biog- 
raphers, Parton,  between  Jefferson  and  Hamilton, 


WHAT  PARTON  WROTE.  1V5 

which,  besides  being  true,  tells  the  plain  story  of  Dem- 
ocrat and  Federalist — Tammany  and  its  aristocratic 
opponents.  The  differences  of  the  two  men  indicate 
the  differences  of  the  others.  Parton  writes:  "  Hamil- 
ton and  Jefferson  could  not  be  an  harmonious  pair  of 
Cabinet  ministers.  Hamilton  hated,  Jefferson  loved, 
the  French  revolution.  Hamilton  approved,  Jefferson 
detested,  the  monarchizing  forms  of  Washington's  ad- 
ministration. Hamilton  was  for  a  strong  and  over- 
shadowing Federal  government;  Jefferson  was  strenu- 
ous for  the  independence  of  the  States.  Hamilton  was 
in  favor  of  high  salaries  and  a  general  liberality  of 
expenditure;  Jefferson,  liberal  with  his  own  money,  was 
penurious  in  expending  the  people's.  Hamilton  de- 
sired a  powerful  standing  army;  Jefferson  was  for  re- 
lying chiefly  on  an  unpaid  patriotic  militia.  Hamilton 
would  have  had  our  ambassadors  live  at  foreign  courts 
in  a  style  similar  to  that  of  the  courtly  representatives 
of  kings;  Jefferson  was  opposed  to  any  diplomatic 
establishment.  Hamilton  had  a  great  opinion  of  for- 
eign commerce;  Jefferson  knew  that  home  production 
and  internal  trade  are  the  great  sources  of  national 
wealth.  Hamilton  gave  a  polite  assent  to  the  prevail- 
ing religious  creed  and  attended  the  Episcopal  church; 
Jefferson  was  an  avowed  and  emphatic  dissenter  from 
that  creed.  And  finally,  Hamilton  the  ex-clerk 
[grocery],  was  a  very  fine  gentleman  and  wore  the  very 
fine  clothes  then  in  vogue;  Jefferson,  the  hereditary 
lord  of  acres,  combed  his  hair  out  of  pigtail,  discarded 
powder,  wore  pantaloons,  fastened  his  shoes  with 
strings  instead  of  buckles,  and  put  fine  gentlemanisms 
out  of  his  heart  forever." 

There  have  been  such  as  Hamilton  in  every  year  to 


176  RICHARD  CROKER. 

roll  since  then;  luckily  there  has  been  a  never-stinted 
flood  of  Jeffersons.  The  parties  to-day  are  as  the 
parties  then,  and  the  leopard  of  politics  has  not 
changed  one  spot.  Seventy  years  after  Jefferson  and 
Hamilton  encountered  in  Washington's  Cabinet — this 
by  way  of  a  curiosity  of  sentiment — one  Wadsworth,  a 
senator,  made  a  speech  against  certain  of  the  yeomanry 
of  its  pews  who  held  that  the  aristocratic  vestry  of 
Trinity  Church,  made  as  it  was  with  much  point  of  the 
exclusive,  should  not  have  an  unwatched  and  unchecked 
ordering  of  Trinity's  vast  estates.  It  was  the  old 
Federalist  speaking  in  Wadsworth  when  he  says,  as  one 
who  is  delegate  of  the  elect,  "  I  represent  the  Jays,  the 
Hamiltons,  and  the  Kings."  Then  Wadsworth  pro- 
ceeds to  characterize  the  pew-peasants  who  presume  to 
a  knowledge  of  and  a  voice  in  their  own  churchly 
business.  "  Neither  Jack  Cade,"  shouts  Wadsworth — 
finely  rising  to  the  occasion — "  neither  Jack  Cade  nor 
Ledru  Eollin  ever  proposed  anything  bolder.  All 
Jacobinism  stands  without  its  parallel.  The  attack 
upon  the  noblesse  of  France,  when  untold  millions  of 
property  fell  the  prey  to  plebeian  rapacity,  furnishes 
the  only  fit  illustration  which  my  mind  can  recall  to 
express  my  abhorrence  of  this  outrageous  proposition." 
Wadsworth  in  1857  still  sounds  like  Hamilton;  one 
might  imagine  that  our  fop  of  a  Federalist,  who  like  all 
promoted  vulgarians  was  prone  to  despise  and  condemn 
the  ranks  from  which  he  came,  was  still  alive  and  ora- 
torical. 

Jefferson  was  elected  President  in  1800.  For  the  prior 
four  years  Adams  had  been  President,  and  it  was  his 
blunderings  and  un- Americanisms,  added  to  the  Burr- 
directed  efforts  of  Tammany  Hall,  which  served  to  put 


PRESIDENT  JOHN  ADAMS.  177 

Jefferson  in  the  White  House.  Adams  was  a  well-mean- 
ing bigot  of  a  man,  crowded  of  suspicions.  His  men- 
tality was  as  strong  as  the  paw  of  a  bear,  and  as  much 
moved  of  a  clumsy  curiosity.  The  nose  of  the  Adams  in- 
telligence was  into  every  current  thing,  to  everything's 
disaster.  Johnson  said  that  Goldsmith  "  touched 
nothing  he  did  not  adorn."  This  could  not  be  stated 
of  Adams,  who  touched  only  to  disarrange.  He  was 
the  genius  of  error,  the  spirit  of  mistake,  and  knew 
more  of  fiends  and  angels  than  he  did  of  men.  Decid- 
edly he  was  bankrupt  of  that  grand  sense,  superior  to 
other  sense,  called  common  sense.  An  egotist,  con- 
stant in  his  own  thoughts,  he  believed  himself  to  be 
ever  in  the  minds  of  other  men.  Timid  where  there 
was  no  threat,  he  ordered  arms  from  the  arsenal  into 
his  house  in  Philadelphia  to  protect  himself  from 
non-existent  perils  and  against  mobs  which  never 
had  him  in  their  thought.  He  was  finicky  and 
small,  and  tenderly  apprehensive  of  his  dignity  as 
President,  without  the  tact  or  taste  to  keep  himself 
from  being  laughed  at.  While  he  was  going  through 
Newark,  a  foolish  cannon  banged  uproariously  in  his 
honor.  An  onlooker,  with  little  humor  and  less  cau- 
tion, not  respecting  Adams,  wished  audibly  that  the 
paper  wadding  had  struck  the  President  on  the  part 
amplest  of  his  rear  elevation.  Under  the  acts  of  Alien 
and  Sedition  whereof  Adams  was  a  tireless  advocate 
this  was  a  kind  of  Use  majeste,  and  the  Federal  Presi- 
dent caused  the  ribald  one  to  be  sentenced  to  jail,  there 
to  sup  sorrow  for  a  month.  This  and  kindred  deeds  of 
politico-imbecility  did  he;  and  one  and  all  they  paved  a 
Presidency  to  Jefferson. 
"  John  Adams/'  said  one  of  his  near  adherents  and 


1V8  HICHAM)  CHOKER. 

cabineteers,  "is  a  man  who  whether  sportful,  witty, 
kind,  cold,  drunk,  sober,  angry,  easy,  stiff,  jealous, 
careless,  cautious,  confident,  close  or  open,  is  so  always 
in  the  wrong  place  and  with  the  wrong  man." 

That  Adams  was  a  bad  Republican  and  a  worse  Amer- 
ican has  display  in  a  letter  of  argument  to  his  wife. 
After  saying  that  the  revolution  which  overthrew  the 
throne  in  France  was  from  the  first  "  a  goblin  damned," 
the  Bay  State  narrowist  continues.  "  By  the  law  of 
nature,"  he  writes,  "  all  men  are  men  and  not  angels 
— men  and  not  lions — men  and  not  whales — men  and 
not  eagles — that  is,  they  are  all  of  the  same  species;  and 
this  is  the  most  that  the  equality  of  man  amounts  to. 
A  physical  inequality,  an  intellectual  inequality,  of  the 
most  serious  kind  is  established  unchangeable  by  the 
Author  of  nature;  and  society  has  a  right  to  establish 
any  other  inequality  it  may  judge  necessary  for  its 
good." 

Thus  stood  men  and  matters  on  the  eve  of  the 
Presidential  canvass  of  the  year  1800.  Jefferson  and 
Burr  were  the  candidates  of  the  Democrats;  Adams 
and  Pinckney  opposed  them  for  the  Federalists.  The 
Democrats  favored  France;  the  Federals  gave  their 
sympathy  to  England,  so  lately  with  her  clutch  at  the 
throat  of  America.  The  Democrats  sympathized  with 
the  revolution  in  France;  the  Federalists  denounced  it. 
The  Democrats  demanded  the  repeal  of  the  Alien  and 
Sedition  laws;  the  Federalists,  who  were  their  authors, 
defended  them  and  their  retention.  Finally,  the 
Democrats  were  for  the  common  folk  against  the  aris- 
tocracy; and  the  Federals,  who  believed  in  caste,  faced 
them  on  that  point.  The  Federals  talked  of  the  righta 
of  property  and  were  the  party  of  Money;  the  Demo- 


JEFFERSON  AND  BURR.  1^9 

crats  laid  emphasis  on  the  rights  of  perishing  flesh  and 
blood.  And  Tammany  Hall,  then  as  now,  was  the  van- 
guard of  State  and  National  Democracy. 

Jefferson  felt  no  hope  of  victory;  he  looked  forward 
to  Adams  and  a  Federal  success.  Aaron  Burr  did  not 
share  the  Jefferson  forebode.  Burr  believed  that  tri- 
umph for  the  Democracy  was  probable,  and  already  be- 
held in  gloating  anticipation  the  chagrin  of  his  enemy 
Hamilton,  with  whom,  at  the  bar  and  in  politics,  he 
had  been  at  point  of  rapier  for  a  space  of  fifteen  years. 

Hamilton  was  the  head  of  the  order  of  the  Cincin- 
nati. Also  he  was  son-in-law  of  General  Schuyler;  and 
the  Schuylers — Federalists — were  a  formidable  tribe. 
The  city  of  New  York  at  that  time  panted  with  a 
population  of  fifty  thousand  souls.  The  politics  of  the 
community  was  controlled  by  four  great  families;  the 
Schuylers,  the  Jays,  the  Clintons,  and  the  Livingstons. 
The  two  first  were  of  the  Federals;  the  two  latter  of 
the  Democrats.  Hamilton  was  the  leader  of  the 
one,  and  Burr  of  the  other.  Hamilton,  as  stated, 
was  in  control  of  the  Cincinnati;  Burr  was  in  command 
of  Tammany  Hall.  And  the  last  was  sworn  foe  of  the 
other. 

Platt  to-day  has  that  position  in  State  and  city  poli- 
tics held  by  Alexander  Hamilton  one  hundred  years 
ago;  Burr,  who  opposed  Hamilton,  and  who  was  chief 
of  the  then  forces  of  Tammany,  was  line  for  line 
of  leadership,  and  power  for  power,  exact  with 
Richard  Croker  now.  The  Tammany  of  then, 
save  for  numbers,  was  a  picture  of  the  present 
organization.  Speaking  of  the  Tammany  of  1800, 
Eenwick  relates:  "All  who  numbered  themselves  as  its 
members  were  prepared  to  yield  implicit  obedience  to 


180  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  will  of  its  majority;  that  majority  was  made  to 
move  at  the  beck  of  committees  which  concentrated  the 
power  in  the  hands  of  a  few  individuals.  Denunciation 
as  a  traitor  was  the  fate  of  him  who  ventured  to  act  in 
conformity  with  his  individual  opinion  when  it  did  not 
meet  with  the  general  indorsement."  One  may  not 
count  many  alterations,  whether  of  discipline,  or  prin- 
ciples, or  changes  of  front,  to  have  come  over  Tam- 
many Hall  in  a  century.  Kenwick  reads  as  if  he  had 
written  of  the  present. 

This  is  a  good  place  to  halt  and  pitch  one's  camp.  It 
is  here  on  the  boundaries  of  that  struggle  where  a 
White  House  was  to  be  lost  and  won;  where  the  elect- 
ors were  to  fail  of  a  choice;  where  a  tie-vote  was  to 
hold  the  House  in  its  dangerous  folds  for  days;  where 
first  and  last  the  Constitution — "  that  crazy  old  hulk  " 
of  Hamilton's — was  to  be  strained  and  tested  to  the 
utmost;  where  Adams  and  Hamilton  were  to  fall,  and 
Jefferson  and  Burr  rise  over  them;  where  Tammany 
Hall  was  to  give  to  Democracy  its  first  victory  and  its 
first  President,  that  one  may  with  propriety  draw  hard 
on  the  puckering  strings  of  relation  and  close  the 
chapter. 


XII. 

BURK    AND    TAMMANY. 

'Twas  when  they  raised  mid  sap  and  siege 
The  banners  of  their  rightful  liege, 
— Hose. 

IT  was  long  ago,  eighty  years  or  more,  when  Disraeli, 
the  father,  wrote  the  "  Curiosities  of  Literature,"  and 
later  the  "  Calamities  of  Authors,"  and  still  later  the 
"  Quarrels  of  Authors."  I  have  often  reflected  what 
thriving  tales  might  flourish  under  such  titles  as 
the  "  Curiosities  of  Politics,"  the  "  Calamities  of  Poli- 
ticians," and  the  "  Quarrels  of  Politicians,"  if  only 
some  Disraeli  of  the  parties  were  extant  to  their  con- 
struction. Indubitably  it  was  the  organization  of  the 
self-sufficient  Cincinnati,  evoking  in  a  spirit  of  resent- 
ment the  counter-organization  of  Tammany  Hall, 
which  stifled  the  American  monarchists  under  the 
name  of  Federalists  and  gave  to  this  nation  Jefferson 
as  President  and  a  true  Democracy  as  a  result. 

Contributory  to  such  conclusion  were  the  long-stand- 
ing quarrels  of  Burr  and  Hamilton.  These  differences 
had  beginning  close  on  the  back  of  British  departure 
from  New  York,  and  the  peace  which  followed  Corn- 
wallis  at  Yorktown.  They  ran  through  their  law  prac- 
tice, their  social  life,  their  action  of  politics,  until  in 
1800  the  feud  thereby  engendered  brought  them  front 
to  front  as  rival  captains,  one  of  Tammany  and  the 
Democracy,  and  the  other  of  the  Cincinnati  and  the 
Federalists,  in  this  the  city  of  New  York. 

181 


182  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Stepping  aside  for  one  pace,  it  might  be  offered  as 
hint  to  whomsoever  shall  essay  the  series  suggested 
that  under  the  head  of  "  Curiosities  of  Politics,"  and 
perhaps  that  of  the  "  Quarrels  of  Politicians,"  he 
should  begin  with  Jefferson's  attempt  to  convict 
Burr  of  treason  at  Eichmond.  It  was  this  which 
taught  Jackson,  who  was  Burr's  friend  and  partner  for 
the  Mexican  expedition,  to  hate  the  Man  of  Monticello; 
and,  as  corollary  thereunto — for  Jackson  was  by  nature 
an  extremist,  ever  to  mix  his  passion  with  his  logic — 
to  hate  also  the  doctrine  of  "  nullification "  and  pos- 
sible secession  from  the  Union,  of  which  Jefferson  was 
the  author  and  with  it  the  inventor  of  the  word.  To 
these,  also,  our  author-to-come  should  add  those  Cabi- 
net inharmonies  of  Jackson  whereof  the  lively  Peggy 
O'Neil  was  the  motif,  and  which — considering  the  ar- 
dent sort  of  Jackson — overflowed  in  his  wrath  against 
Calhoun,  and  the  issuance  of  that  toast  to  the  plotting 
diners  at  the  old  Indian  Queen  Tavern,  "  The  Union; 
it  must  and  shall  be  preserved,"  wherewith  the  strong 
Jackson  palsied,  heart  and  hand,  incipient  rebellion, 
and  staved  off  civil  war  for  thirty  years. 

Before  one  goes  to  the  tale  of  Tammany  victory  in 
1800,  and  the  consequent  election  of  Jefferson  to  a 
presidency,  there  might  be  written,  with  propriety  and 
perhaps  with  good,  a  personal  word  or  two  of  Burr 
and  Hamilton  who  were  Wolfe  and  Montcalm  of  that 
field.  There  has  been  no  one  in  history  or  out  of  it 
to  be  more  maligned  than  Aaron  Burr.  It  seems 
hard  to  speak  the  truth  of  eminence.  Either  it  be- 
comes sacrifice  to  eulogy,  as  with  Washington  and 
Jefferson;  or  falls  victim  of  the  vilifier,  as  in  the  case 
of  Burr.  Four-fifths  of  present  popular  estimate  of 


SOME  ANCESTRAL  NOTES.  183 

Burr  depends  on  that  speech  of  Wirt  against  Burr  de- 
livered during  the  Kichmond  trial,  and  which  was  for 
years  kept  in  the  hands  of  every  school-child  as  an 
exercise  of  those  "  Headers  "  which  were  their  text- 
books; and  which  must  have  had  certain  compilation 
by  Federalists  or  their  Burr-hating  cubs.  Verily!  a 
most  solvent  source  from  which  to  have  the  truth  of  a 
man's  act  and  character — the  address  of  that  -paid 
attorney  who  had  taken  fees  to  prosecute  him. 

In  the  conventional  comparisons  of  Burr  with  Hamil- 
ton one  has  been  ever  offered  that  cleanly  impression  of 
a  high,  proud  aristocracy  as  the  ancestry  of  Hamilton. 
Burr,  as  against  this,  was  the  mephitic  bubble  on  some 
chance-hollowed  mudhole  of  humanity,  which  the 
storms  had  filled  and  the  swine  enjoyed.  For  myself  I 
care  little  for  an  ancestry,  preferring  rather  to  hear  of 
one's  own  deeds  than  those  of  one's  grandfather  in  de- 
ciding one's  worth.  But,  as  has  been  already  set  forth, 
this  matter  of  pedigree  is  important  in  New  York;  and, 
therefore,  in  the  stories  of  Burr  and  Hamilton  may 
as  well  be  understood. 

Burr  was  grandson  by  his  mother  of  the  worthy 
Jonathan  Edwards  of  Connecticut.  Burr's  father  and 
his  father's  father  were,  and  still  are,  famous  as  the 
two  most  learned  Presidents  which  the  seminary  of 
Princeton  has  known.  Hamilton  was  born  in  the  Isle 
Nevis,  a  poor  pin-prick  of  the  Antilles.  His  Scotch 
father  was  a  grocer  who  failed  at  his  trade.  His 
mother,  descended  by  the  Huguenots,  was  a  Mile.  Fau- 
cette.  She  had  been  married  before  she  met  with  the 
father  of  Hamilton;  but  finding  her  first  husband  more 
gay  than  true,  she  retreated  to  a  divorce,  her  father, 
and  her  maiden  name. 


184  RICHARD  CROKER. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen  Hamilton  left  school,  and 
himself  engaged  in  West  Indian  commerce  behind  the 
scales  and  counters  of  one  Cruger  of  St.  Croix.  The 
latter  maintained  a  drygoods  and  ship-grocery  at  that 
port.  For  a  number  of  years  Hamilton  struggled  with 
tropical  trade  as  expressed  by  cod  fish,  rum,  and  sou'- 
westers,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  that  money-knowl- 
edge which  was  to  render  him  great  as  the  first  Secre- 
tary of  our  national  Treasury. 

Coming  to  New  York  when  a  youth,  for  reasons 
which  his  biographers  appear  to  skip  in  silence,  Hamil- 
ton set  himself  to  a  further  education.  He  was  irregu- 
larly a  day  student  at  what  is  now  Columbia  University, 
then  Kings  College,  and  wound  up  by  a  study  of  the 
law. 

Both  Hamilton  and  Burr  were  brave  soldiers  of  the 
Revolution.  Hamilton  was  at  one  time  private  secre- 
tary of  Washington,  and  was  in  the  same  skiff  with  the 
latter  when  he  "  crossed  the  Delaware."  Burr  rose  to 
the  rank  of  colonel  and  distinguished  himself  with  the 
mal-fortuned  Montgomery  in  the  campaign  against 
Quebec.  There,  before  one,  lie  the  bones  of  the  per- 
sonal stories  of  both  Burr  and  Hamilton. 

Burr's  detractors  have  laid  much  lowering  stress  on 
his  blushing  gallantries  with  women.  He  offered  them, 
truly,  opportunity  both  wide  and  full  for  these  strict- 
ures. But  your  purist  of  to-day  should  reflect.  Those 
were  far  times,  and  tumultuous.  They  were  times 
strong  with  passion,  and  tinctured  of  the  revolutionary. 
The  heroes  of  those  days  were  folk  volcanic,  with 
hearts  like  Hecla;  and  their  same  traits  of  courage  and 
stamina  and  unyielding  force  which  fought  a  King 
through  seven  years  of  Freedom's  battles,  became  in 


PLATONIC  LOVE.  185 

softer  hours  the  attributes  which  turned  to  woman's 
sweetness  like  flowers  to  the  sun.  Burr  was 
in  no  wise  unique  in  this  weakness  of  the  ewige 
weibliche,  as  Goethe  named  it.  What  was  said  of  Burr 
might  have  been  told — and  was — of  Washington,  of 
Jefferson,  of  Franklin,  and  of  Hamilton.  The  latter, 
in  truth,  in  1797,  went  to  the  borderland  of  duel  with 
Madison,  later  to  be  President,  concerning  a  certain 
Mistress  Eeynolds.  The  business  drove  as  far  as 
seconds,  and  Burr  was  acting  for  Madison  in  that  trig- 
ger-oiling, bullet-molding  behalf.  It  didn't  reach  the 
burning  of  powder,  however;  negotiations,  which  at 
one  time  looked  hopefully  towards  it,  struck  some  peace 
argument  and  glanced  off. 

For  myself,  I've  never  felt  appointed  of  my  star 
to  condemn  those  thinkers  and  warriors  who  won  our 
Independence,  for  their  warm-eyed  interest  concerning 
woman.  And  one  may  distrust  as  knaves  and  hypocrites 
those  males  who  do.  Sought  after,  beamed  on,  courted 
and  admired  of  women,  as  each  of  them  was,  it  would 
have  weathered  the  Cape  of  Miracles  if,  with  all  those 
hot  gales  blowing,  their  morals  had  maintained  an  even 
keel. 

"  What! "  cries  a  feminine  voice,  bubblous  with  in- 
cipient indignation;  "what!  do  you  mean  to  assert 
that  a  woman  may  not  admire  a  great  man  and  tell 
him  so?" 

"  It  is  an  exercise  of  much  unsaf ety,  madam." 

"Are  you  willing  to  say,"  cries  the  same  feminine 
voice,  "  that  a  man  and  a  woman  may  not  maintain  a 
platonic  friendship  for  one  another?" 

"  Pardon  me,  madam;  not  unless  they're  married  to 
one  another," 


186  RICHARD  CROEER. 

"  But  these  heroes/'  cries  the  voice,  "  were  as  eager 
to  invoke  the  admiration  of  woman  as  she  to  offer  it." 

"  True,  madam;  that  arose  from  excess  of  the 
natural." 

It  is  right  to  admit  that  I  do  not  understand  woman, 
and  may  no  more  follow  the  windings  of  her  nature, 
wanting  the  aid  of  some  Ariadne  and  her  clew  of  silk, 
than  Theseus  might  the  labyrinth  of  Minos.  But  man 
is  a  simpler  animal;  I  know  him  in  each  detail  of  his 
contradictions.  Man  is  a  paradox,  and  a  paradox  is 
ever  a  fraud.  Man  is  at  once  his  own  captor  and  his 
own  captive.  In  his  nature  he  is  both  hare  and  hound; 
ever  a  fugitive,  ever  in  fervent  pursuit  of  himself. 

This  genius  for  the  Self-opposite  runs  through  all  he 
does.  It  will  find  evincement  in  the  matter  of  religious 
thought.  His  reason  will  go  one  way,  his  instinct  an- 
other. He  will  ruminate  the  subject  of  himself:  his 
past  and  his  hereafter.  His  reason  will  alarm  him 
with  the  fact  that  his  each  act  or  thought  is  result 
of  cause,  itself  result  of  other,,  further  cause,  and 
so  ad  infinilum.  Your  man,  reasoning,  will  hear 
the  linked  chain  of  effect  and  cause  clanking  rear- 
wardly  until  dimly  the  clanking  is  lost  and  died 
away  in  the  last  hollows  of  his  heretofore.  He 
does  not  understand,  he  may  not  comprehend,  more 
than  he  understands  and  embraces  the  fact  of  f rameless 
space.  But  he  believes  he  knows;  just  as  he  is  aware  of 
the  eternal  granite  without  grasping,  even  with  the 
hand  of  conjecture,  the  promise  of  its  first  production. 
The  decision  of  your  man  reasoning  is  that  he's  a 
fatalist.  The  whole  future  is  decreed;  man  himself  is 
locked  helpless  as  a  fly  in  amber. 

And  yet  in  his  instincts,  and  that  despite  his  reason, 


FIREPLACE  IN  CAFE  OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  CLUB. 


MAN'S  CONTRADICTIONS.  187 

he  feels  that  he  is  free.  Knowing  himself  tethered  to 
some  picket-pin  of  the  inevitable,  also  he  knows  that 
he  has  liberty  of  body  and  soul  by  the  testimony  of 
sheer  instinct.  It  is  likewise  to  be  said — and  the  race 
has  comfort  and  good  fortune  therefrom — that  man's 
fatalism,  child  of  his  reason,  never  drags  him  beyond 
the  stage  of  theory.  On  the  contrary,  each  item  of  his 
goings  about,  and  all  he  does  and  tries  to  do,  find  their 
feet  in  his  instinctive  knowledge  that  he  is  free. 

And,  madam, — for  I  am  still  moved  to  your  instruc- 
tion,— never  engage  to  know  a  man's  sentiments  by  dis- 
covering his  deeds.  In  those  multiplied  contradic- 
tions of  man-nature  which  say  both  "  yes  "  and  "  no  " 
to  every  asking,  one  is  not,  when  considering  the 
problem  of  man,  to  determine  his  belief  by  his  action. 
In  this  one  matter  of  man's  attitude  towards  woman, 
which,  if  I  err  not,  was  the  start-point  of  present 
trouble,  one  would  often  go  mightily  astray  were  one 
to  deduce  man's  conclusions  from  his  conduct,  and  come 
at  what  he  thinks  by  what  he  does.  There  are  many 
who  with  the  instincts  of  a  Eoundhead  have  the  habits 
of  a  Cavalier;  they  act  like  Charles  the  Second  while 
they  think  like  Cromwell. 

Discussion  was  never  fair  nor  liberal  with  the  name 
of  Burr.  There  came  no  charity  to  cover  the  multi- 
tude of  his  sins.  Burr  said,  for  example,  that  "  Law  is 
anything  thatfs  boldly  asserted  and  ingeniously  main- 
tained." He  had  much  abuse  for  this,  as  he 
who,  with  no  respect  for  justice,  was  adept  of  de- 
ceit, plot,  conspiracy,  and  chicane.  Choate,  who 
does  our  present  louting  before  Koyalty  at  St.  James', 
observed  of  the  Courts  of  New  York  and  that  suspi- 
cious instability  wherewith  they  held  the  scales,  "  It  is 


188  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

better  to  know  the  judge  than  to  know  the  law,"  and 
was  regarded  for  his  sparkling  wit  as  another  Curran. 
Yet  why  assail  Burr  while  one  garlands  Choate? 

Again,  a  century  agone,  the  Federalists,  controlling 
the  banks,  and  as  well  the  legislatures  at  Albany,  would 
grant  no  bank  charter  to  Democrats  lest  they  collect 
therein  and  thereby  the  sinews  of  war.  Some 
Socrates  of  carnage,  and  one  profound  of  blood, 
once  wrote,  "  There  are  three  things  needed  to  wage 
successful  war;  the  first  is  money,  the  second  is  money, 
and  the  third  is  money."  One  may  say  as  much  of 
politics.  Wherefore  the  Federalists  were  not  weak 
enough  to  open  any  chapter  of  chances  in  favor  of 
Democrats  by  granting  them  a  charter  for  a  bank. 

Yellow  fever  came  ashore.  It  slew  its  thousands 
and  its  tens  of  thousands.  Most  thoroughly  did  it 
weed  and  thin  the  city  of  New  York.  The  Wise  Men — 
as  they  commonly  do  to  this  day — attributed  all  mor- 
tality to  bad  water.  Burr  saw  an  opportunity.  He 
asked  the  legislature  for  a  charter  wherewith  to  form 
a  water  company.  It  was  to  be  known  as  "  The  Man- 
hattan Company."  The  capital  was  fixed  at  two  mil- 
lions; a  healthful  sum  for  that  hour. 

Mild  and  meek  as  one  might  wish  to  see,  squatted 
cozily  away  in  a  far  corner  of  the  charter,  was  a  clause 
to  the  effect  that,  after  water  had  been  provided,  "  the 
company's  surplus  capital  might  be  employed  in  any 
way  not  inconsistent  with  the  laws  and  constitutions  of 
the  United  States  and  the  State  of  New  York."  The 
charter  was  granted.  Burr  and  his  fellow  stockholders 
complied — and  no  more — with  the  strict  water  condi- 
tions of  the  document.  They  dug  an  excellent  well, 
the  same  being  still  abroad  in  the  land.  It  was  of  that 


THE  MANHATTAN  BANK.  189 

capacity,  perhaps,  which  might  serve  the  thirst  of  what 
cattle  should  belong  with  an  ordinary  farm.  Then 
Burr  and  his  stockholders  turned  the  balance  of  their 
capital  and  energy  to  the  organization  of  that  present 
giant  concern  of  money  known  as  The  Manhattan  Bank. 
Burr  was,  and  still  is,  by  Federalists  and  their  de- 
scendants most  gloriously  assailed  for  this  deception. 
Had  he  been  a  Federalist  they  would  have  twined 
wreaths  for  him. 

In  the  summer  of  1800,  Burr  at  the  head  of  Tam- 
many Hall,  and  Hamilton  as  chief  of  the  Federals, 
looked  with  evil  eye  one  upon  the  other.  They  sat 
down  to  plan  their  campaigns.  Hamilton,  whether  as 
trapper  or  hunter  of  politics,  was  never  match  for  Burr. 
Whether  it  was  to  set  some  midnight  snare,  or  whether, 
the  plan  called  for  battle-axes  at  noon,  Burr  showed 
cleverer,  stronger  of  the  two. 

Hamilton,  who  was  immensely  the  egotist  and  as 
much  in  love  with  his  own  reflection  in  the  pool  of 
politics  as  a  Narcissus,  was  not  aware  of  this.  He  felt 
himself  infinitely  the  greater  man.  He  was  "  son-in- 
law  of  Senator  Schuyler; "  he  was  flower  of  the  local 
aristocracy;  moreover,  his  party  of  the  Federalists  had 
never  met  defeat,  and  in  the  year  before,  1799,  had 
carried  New  York  by  a  majority  of  nine  hundred. 

Burr,  with  Tammany  Hall  at  his  back,  believed  he 
would  triumph,  but  knew  he  must  work.  And  Burr 
waxed  indefatigable.  He  was  the  first  "  Boss "  of 
Tammany  Hall,  and  resolved  to  make  a  record.  Burr 
span  his  policy  as  spiders  spin  their  webs.  Theft  was 
not  theft  in  Sparta  unless  discovered  in  process  of 
commission.  Burr  and  Hamilton  so  far  emulated  Ly- 
curgus  that  they  scrupled  at  no  act  of  eavesdropping, 


190  RICHARD  CROKER. 

nor  larceny  of  documents,  nor  what  else  might  serve; 
they  feared  no  disgrace  where  there  was  no  detection, 
and  held  with  the  swart  Tarquin,  "  the  fault  unknown 
is  as  a  thought  unacted." 

Burr  was  as  sedulous  as  sleepless.  He  had  a  spy  in 
every  council,  an  agent  at  the  elbow  of  every  oppor- 
tunity. Burr  put  off  Tammany  Hall's  ticket-making 
until  Hamilton  had  made  his.  Burr  got  a  copy  of 
Hamilton's  ticket  before  it  was  public,  and  within 
twenty  minutes  after  it  was  decided  by  the  Federal 
managers.  Burr  was  elated  with  the  Hamilton  names. 
There  wasn't  a  good  man  on  the  list;  each  was  the 
hand-made  puppet  of  Hamilton  himself. 

Then  Tammany,  with  Burr  in  council,  selected  its 
candidates.  There  were  never  stronger  names  pre- 
sented to  the  voters  of  New  York.  Among  others, 
and  leading  them,  were  ex-Governor  Clinton,  Judge 
Livingston,  and  General  Gates,  the  latter  the  conquerer 
of  the  English  at  Saratoga. 

Tammany's  committee,  with  Burr  as  spokesman, 
waited  upon  these  people  of  pedestals  to  notify  them 
of  their  selection.  Gates  said  he'd  "  run  "  if  Clinton  ac- 
cepted. Livingston  said  the  same.  Burr  and  the  Tam- 
many chiefs  headed  for  Clinton.  Now  the  latter  states- 
man was  a  child  of  certain  stubborn,  self-willed,  canny 
Scotch-Irish,  and  possessed  the  family  traits  in  ex- 
aggeration. To  add  to  that,  as  against  Jefferson  or  any- 
one else,  Clinton  mightily  preferred  that  he  be  Presi- 
dent himself.  Four  years  before  Clinton  had  received 
thirty  electoral  votes.  Clinton  had  hopes,  and  there- 
fore didn't  want  to  commit  himself  to  the  Jefferson 
canvass.  He  refused  to  permit  the  Burr-Tammany  folk 
his  name.  Clinton  "  wouldn't  go  on  any  local  ticket." 


CLINTON   CONSENTS.  191 

Burr  argued,  flattered,  besought,  and  cajoled.  Noth- 
ing might  move  the  ambitious  ex-Governor.  Clinton 
was  polite,  but  positive.  His  name  must  not  be  on  the 
Jefferson-Tammany  ticket.  Then  Burr  shifted  the 
wind  of  argument. 

"  When  it  comes  to  that,  Governor  Clinton,"  said 
Burr,  and  he'd  grown  as  haughtily  high  as  the  ex-Gov- 
ernor— "  when  it  comes  to  that,  our  appearance  before 
you,  preferring  the  request  that  you  run  on  this  ticket, 
is  a  function  rather  of  courtesy  than  need.  With  the 
last  word,  and  regardless  either  of  your  plans  or  your 
preferences,  the  public  is  perfect  in  its  right  to  name 
you  and  compel  you  to  run.  And,  Governor,  should 
you  continue  to  withhold  your  consent,  we  stand  al- 
ready determined  to  retain  your  name  despite  refusal, 
and  pursue  the  course  I've  indicated  as  one  entirely 
within  the  lines  of  popular  right." 

Clinton  was  at  a  loss.  In  the  end  he  gracefully  con- 
sented, but  with  the  understanding  that  he  didn't  per- 
sonally favor  Jefferson,  and  was  not  to  make  any  speech 
in  his  advocacy,  reservations  for  which  neither  Burr 
nor  the  Tammany  folk  cared  ever  a  penny.  They  had 
gotten  the  names  of  Clinton,  Gates,  and  Livingston  on 
their  ticket,  which  was  the  vote-winning  desideratum 
sought. 

As  an  at-the-polls  finale,  Tammany  Hall  and  Burr 
ran  over  the  Federals  and  Hamilton  in  the  city  of 
New  York  by  a  majority  of  four  hundred  and  ninety. 
This  gave  Jefferson  the  State.  Without  New  York, 
Jefferson  at  the  last  would  have  been  defeated  and 
John  Adams  returned  to  succeed  himself. 

Hamilton  was  frantic.  It  was  beyond  belief.  In 
his  resentments  of  things  as  they  were — it  casts  a  side- 


192  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

light  on  the  Hamilton  character — he  wrote  a  private 
letter  to  Jay,  then  Governor  (Federal),  and  urged  him 
to  a  special  convention  of  the  legislature  (Federal) 
when  measures  would  be  concocted  to  steal  from  Jef- 
ferson the  State.  In  apology  to  Jay,  a  man  of  spotless 
honor,  for  the  iniquity  proposed,  Hamilton  said  at  the 
close  of  the  letter  that  it  was  the  last  method  "  to  pre- 
vent an  atheist  in  religion  and  a  fanatic  in  politics  from 
getting  possession  of  the  helm  of  state." 

Jay  did  not  call  an  extra  session  of  the  legislature, 
nor  did  he  answer  Hamilton's  letter.  The  villain 
proffer  never  would  have  been  known,  save  that  long 
afterward  the  missive  was  found  among  Jay's  papers, 
stiffly  indorsed  in  Jay's  own  hand,  "  Proposing  a  meas- 
ure for  party  purposes  which  I  think  it  would  not  be- 
come me  to  adopt." 

As  sequel  to  this  election  the  choice  of  President 
went  finally  to  the  House  of  Representatives — as  was 
then  the  law — on  the  failure  of  a  majority  of  the 
Presidential  electors  to  unite  on  one  name.  Many  of 
the  Federals,  breathless  to  defeat  Jefferson,  proposed 
Burr  against  him.  The  decision  hung  in  the  wind  of  a 
House  tie  for  many  days. 

Jefferson  believed,  and  Burr's  enemies  declared,  that 
Burr  gave  countenance  to  this  Federal  plot  and  strove 
to  seize  from  Jefferson  the  Presidency.  The  proof  is  the 
other  way;  two  specimens  of  the  evidence  on  that  point 
might  be  printed,  the  more  readily  since  they  seem  to 
be  conclusive.  During  the  progress  of  ballot-taking, 
Cooper,  a  Federalist  of  New  York,  an  anti- Jefferson 
man,  and  incidentally  the  father  of  that  Cooper  who 
has  fame  for  "  Leatherstocking,"  wrote  to  a  friend: 
"All  stand  firm.  Jefferson  eight;  Burr  six;  divided 


AN  ELDER  BAYARD.  193 

two.  Had  Burr  done  anything  for  himself  he  would 
long  ere  this  have  been  President.  If  a  majority  would 
answer,  he  would  have  had  it  on  every  vote." 

Following  Jefferson's  election  as  President  and  that 
of  Burr  as  Vice  President,  one  Bayard  of  Delaware,  the 
first  of  a  family  now  happily  extinct  in  American  poli- 
tics, wrote  to  Hamilton.  Bayard  said:  "  The  means 
existed  of  electing  Burr,  but  this  required  his  co- 
operation. By  deceiving  one  man  (a  great  blockhead) 
and  tempting  two  (not  incorruptible)  he  might  have 
secured  a  majority  of  the  States.  He  will  never  have 
another  chance  of  being  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  the  little  use  he  made  of  this  one  gives  me  but  a 
poor  opinion  of  his  talents."  How  very  like  a  Bayard! 

Burr's  name  and  fame  are  choked  with  weed  of  lie 
and  slander  even  unto  this  day.  But  there  will  come 
the  rescue,  and  a  future  shall  do  him  equity.  Truth 
is  not  to  die,  nor  prejudice  to  live,  and  so  Burr's  day 
will  dawn.  There  was  never  a  flaw  nor  a  falsity  in 
Burr's  attitude  towards  the  public.  He  had  been  brave 
as  a  soldier,  he  was  leader  of  the  bar,  and  in  things 
political  Burr  was  all  American.  Burr  never  had  a 
dollar  with  spot  or  stain  to  mark  it.  He  was  honest, 
he  was  generous,  he  was  loyal.  He  deceived  none  who 
was  his  friend;  deserted  no  obligation,  betrayed  no 
trust.  If  his  downfall  is  to  have  solution,  Burr  was 
crushed  by  his  own  triumphs.  Like  that  Paul  Jones 
who  was  England's  terror  and  the  sea-hero  of  the 
Eevolution,  Burr  found  his  destruction  in  those  envies 
bred  of  his  success. 

Jefferson  never  forgot  nor  forgave  Burr  that  heart- 
shaking  tie  for  a  Presidency,  and  to  the  end  was  in- 
veterately  on  the  track  of  Burr.  Jefferson  charged 


194  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Burr  with  public  treason.  He  tried  Burr  three  times; 
in  Kentucky,  in  Mississippi,  and  in  Eichmond.  And 
thrice  by  court  and  jury  Burr  was  acclaimed  innocent. 
It  is  among  the  best  words  to  be  spoken  of  Marshall 
that,  cold  and  firm  and  right,  he  could  declare  the  law 
and  displease  the  White  House  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

It  may  not  be  to  Jefferson's  whole  discredit  that 
he  was  so  fiercely  and,  one  might  add,  unscrupu- 
lously the  enemy  of  Burr.  It  shows  that  he  had  those 
blazing  weaknesses  that  make  of  man  a  man  and  not 
a  god.  Find  that  one  who  has  done  no  wrong,  and  you 
will  have  overtaken  one  who  has  done  nothing.  Much 
that  is  hailed  excellent  is  only  the  absence  of  activities 
— the  good-passive.  And  the  good-passive  is  a  com- 
modity of  tameness.  It  is  hueless,  gray,  and  wan;  it 
has  none  of  the  vivid  richness  of  those  prismatic  seven 
which,  for  aught  one  knows,  may  be  the  convicting 
register  of  seven  sins  of  the  sun. 

Jackson,  however,  was  one  who  never  exonerated 
Jefferson  for  his  pursuit  of  Burr.  During  the  latter^s 
trial  Jackson  came  hot-foot  from  Nashville  to  Eich- 
mond to  express  his  contempt  for  the  President;  a 
ceremony  he  accomplished  in  divers  set  speeches,  and 
with  much  applause  from  the  multitude. 

Another  disaster  to  Burr  was  his  duel  with,  and  the 
death  of,  Hamilton.  His  enemies,  both  in  the  Federal 
party  and  in  his  own,  used  it  to  his  tearing  down. 
Burr  was  right  and  his  detractors  wrong. 

Burr  met  Hamilton  honorably  and  by  the  custom  of 
that  time.  Hamilton  professed  the  duello;  his  own  son 
had  been  killed,  but  a  brief  few  years  before,  on  those 
very  grounds  where  he  fell  before  the  pistol  of  Burr. 


THE  BURR-HAMILTON  DUEL.  195 

Hamilton  was  made  mad  with  his  overthrow  by  Tam- 
many under  the  captaincy  of  Burr.  Hamilton  there- 
after, at  each  chance  and  by  every  covert  method, 
maligned  and  traduced  Burr.  Nor  is  there  scrap 
to  show  that  Burr  followed  a  course  similar  towards 
Hamilton.  Burr  was  mute  while  the  other  ex- 
hausted malice  in  incessant  and  baseless  tales  against 
him.  Burr  was  Vice  President,  the  second  officer 
of  state;  Hamilton  was  politically  nothing.  Burr 
was  the  war-general  of  a  militant  Democracy  and 
had  led  it  to  its  first  success;  Hamilton  was 
that  defeated  commander  whom  he'd  crushed.  Each 
was  evenly  endowed  of  worldly  goods.  Each  had 
his  law  practice.  Each  had  his  town  house,  Ham- 
ilton at  52  Cedar  Street  and  Burr  at  30  Fulton; 
each  had  his  country  seat,  the  one  at  the  Grange  and 
the  other  at  Eichmond  Hill.  Of  the  two,  when  each 
is  counted  in  his  all — Burr  in  a  blush  of  triumph  and 
Hamilton  in  the  jaundice  of  defeat — it  will  find  notice 
that  Burr  by  that  duel  risked  more,  since  he  had  more 
to  lose. 

Burr,  for  his  honor  meanly  assailed,  came  down  from 
his  high  place  as  President  of  the  Senate,  and  in  a 
series  of  letters,  easily  obtainable,  backed  Hamil- 
ton across  the  river  to  the  New  Jersey  side  and  took 
his  life.  Burr,  who  did  all  things  well  or  left  them  un- 
attempted,  was  as  complete  with  the  pistol  as  he  was 
with  politics.  At  the  word  Burr  fired,  and  shot  Hamil- 
ton in  the  midst  of  his  body.  Hamilton,  raised  to  his 
toes  by  the  horrid  shock  of  it,  fired  the  moment  after. 
His  bullet  clipped  the  harmless  twigs  about  Burr's  head. 
Then  Hamilton  fell  on  his  face;  and  then  he  was  taken 
away  to  live  some  hours,  and  at  the  last  to  die. 


196  RICHARD  CROKER. 

During  those  hours  of  life  Hamilton  had  a  duty  to 
do,  and  he  missed  and  failed  of  even  its  attempt.  And 
the  omission  smells  of  littleness  and  tells  against  his 
manhood.  What  was  it? 

Out  in  the  sun-burned  far  Southwest  is  a  cluster  of 
adobes  called  for  compliment  a  "  town."  Two  men 
played  with  each  other  that  device  named  seven-up  for 
a  stake  of  twenty  dollars  a  point.  One  may  be  called 
Driscoll  and  the  other  Burlison.  Both  belonged  to 
that  region  and  were  of  the  trade  of  cows.  Driscoll 
was  "  bad,"  and  as  prone  to  trouble  as  sparks  to  fly  up- 
ward; his  six-shooter  was  known  for  its  offensiveness. 
Burlison,  though  steadier,  was  likewise  "  bad,"  and  like- 
wise, to  be  dialectic,  "packed  a  gun."  Of  a  sudden 
both  men  were  on  their  feet;  three  shots  were  fired. 
Each  had  birth  in  Burlison's  pistol,  and  the  sounds  of 
that  firing  trod  on  each  other's  heels  like  the  striking 
of  a  Yankee  clock.  Driscoll  fell  with  three  bullets  in 
him,  and  the  day  of  his  death  was  written.  Two  hours 
later,  on  his  bed  in  the  Jackson  House,  Driscoll  was 
able  to  speak.  These  were  his  first  words. 

"  Where's  Burlison?  "  he  said. 

"  He's  surrendered  himself  to  the  sheriff,"  he  was 
told.  "  Do  you  want  to  see  him?  " 

"  No;  don't  bring  him  here,"  Driscoll  whispered. 
"  I'm  hit  too  hard  to  shoot;  so  there's  no  sense  in  my 
seeing  him.  But  there's  a  word  I  want  to  say  to  you- 
all,  and  it's  what  I  want  done.  You  didn't  see  this 
shooting  and  I  did.  This  killing  is  on  the  square,  and 
Burlison  is  right.  I  reached  for  my  gun  first;  and  if 
it  hadn't  hung  in  the  scabbard  I'd  have  had  him  in  hell 
in  a  second.  I'm  to  die,  and  I  want  my  death  to  end 
it.  I've  no  use  for  Burlison,  and  if  I  could  get  to  my 


TEE   WESTERN  WAT.  197 

feet  and  my  guns  I'd  hunt  him  now.  Still  he  was  right 
to  shoot.  He  filled  his  hand  and  I  didn't.  He  outheld 
me;  that's  the  whole  story.  And  you-all  are  to  throw 
Burlison  loose." 

Driscoll,  who  could  hate  and  still  do  justice,  died 
with  the  demand  for  his  foe's  release  on  his  lips.  The 
West  has  a  balanced  hand,  and  Burlison  walked  free. 
Hamilton's  death-conduct  should  have  been  some  half 
brother  with  Driscoll's.  It  would  have  testified  to 
that  heart-honesty  on  Hamilton's  part  of  which  there's 
a  deal  too  little  evidence. 

Burr  suffered  for  this  duel.  The  Jefferson  folk,  and 
the  Hamilton  folk,  and  every  Burr-hater  found  in  it  a 
weapon  to  his  use.  Those  also  who  were  opposed  to 
dueling,  with  that  ill-logic  too  often  between  the  un- 
thinking teeth  of  your  sentimentalists,  were  harsh  in 
their  attacks  on  Burr;  they  denounced  him  when,  had 
they  possessed  consistency,  they  would  have  denounced 
the  custom. 

And  while  one  has  that  topic  between  one's  hands, 
why  is  it  that  the  system  of  dueling  must  be  so  denied 
and  turned  upon?  It  is  because  folk  lose  their  lives 
by  it?  Is  it  that  death  and  that  blood,  its  incidents, 
which  are  to  shock  us  into  opposition?  Nonsense! 
we  care  little  enough  for  death  and  blood.  We  sit  here 
while  our  surface  railways  slay  folk  at  a  better  average 
than  a  death  a  day,  and  are  no  more  than  by  the  fall 
of  a  sparrow  to  be  disturbed  thereby.  Indifference 
to  life  is  a  prime  national  characteristic;  stoics,  afore- 
time, were  hysterical  by  comparison  with  us.  On  each 
and  every  hand  the  half-searching  eye  may  see  at  what 
trifle  we  value  life.  Then  why  so  fiercely  forward  to 
cow  this  duel  custom?  The  argument  once  offered  by 


198  RICHARD  CROKER. 

a  gentleman  of  South  Carolina  had  some  cogent  spunks 
and  sparks. 

"  Yes,  sir/'  observed  the  gentleman,  in  deference  to 
query  on  that  point — "yes,  sir;  I  favor  dueling.  I 
understand  neither  the  sentiment  nor  the  rule  that  ob- 
jects. Surely,  the  law  is  highly  inconsistent.  Should 
I  be  aroused  in  the  night  by  a  person  in  my  smoke- 
house stealing  hams,  I  am  permitted  by  the  law  to 
stroll  to  the  rear  door,  clad  in  a  shirt  and  a  shotgun, 
and  shoot  the  marauder  dead  without  giving  him  a 
chance.  That  same  man,  by  fagot  of  slander  and  brand 
of  lie,  might  be  striving  to  burn  the  reputation  of  my 
sister  at  the  stake  of  his  own  villainy;  and  yet  the  law 
threatens  to  hang  me  if  I  summon  him  to  the  duel,  and 
face  to  face,  with  equal  weapons  take  his  life.  I  may 
slay  the  wretch — hunger-driven  he  might  be — who 
steals  a  dollar's  worth  of  bacon;  but  the  miscreant  who 
would  rob  a  woman  of  her  good  repute  is  safeguarded 
from  the  wrath  of  those  who,  being  of  her  friends  and 
family,  are  also  with  her  his  prey.  There's  neither 
justice  nor  good  sense  in  the  law  situation  I've  de- 
scribed." 

There's  a  deal  of  drivel  concerning  this  same  busi- 
ness of  the  duel.  Claptrap,  chatter,  cant,  and  coward- 
ice are  all  distinguishable  among  its  component  parts. 
From  the  same  sources  of  a  vapid  and  mindless 
conventionality  come  similar  twitterings  about  Lynch 
law  and  committees  of  vigilance.  We  expand  our 
shirt  fronts  and,  after  reading  of  some  Southern  or 
Western  lynching,  express  our  horror,  and  speak  in 
tones  and  words  of  self-felicitation  of  that  "law  and 
order  "  we,  ourselves,  and  in  our  own  communities  of 
the  North,  uphold. 


COMMITTEES  OF  VIGILANCE.  199 

Two-thirds  of  this,  our  self-applause,  are  the  veriest 
snivel  of  hypocrisy.  Law  and  order!  Law  and  dis- 
order! rather.  The  worst  governed  of  the  whole  roll- 
call  of  the  world's  communities  are  the  Northern  and 
Northeastern  cities  of  this  Union.  Take  the  city  of 
New  York:  a  sober  and  discreet  committee  of  one  hun- 
dred, clothed  of  a  purpose  of  justice  and  a  bale  of  half- 
inch  rope,  would  bring  such  order  and  security  to  the 
public  as  it  has  not  thus  far  known.  The  first  Ameri- 
canism, and  with  it  the  first  safety  of  life  and  limb, 
goods  and  good  repute,  are  to  be  found  in  the  South  and 
West  where  your  committee  of  vigilance  can  be  con- 
vened at  call.  That  committee  is  the  best  expression  of 
the  popular  will.  It  comes  up  through  no  crookedness 
of  tortuous  and  interested  legislation;  it  smells  of  no 
vote-rottenness;  it  is  as  bribeless  as  a  storm,  as  much 
beyond  corruption  as  the  light  of  day.  It  has  but  one 
thought:  justice.  And  it  never  fails.  One  may  say  of 
committees  of  vigilance  what  one  may  not  of  courts. 
No  committee  of  vigilance  ever  hanged  the  wrong  man, 
nor  let  the  wrong  man  go. 

From  motives  of  safety  to  his  reputation  Burr 
should  not  have  gone  abroad.  It  was  a  mistake;  doing 
nothing  for  him  in  Europe,  while  fanning  obloquy  at 
home.  And  then  the  woe  he  must  have  met!  Driven 
from  England,  he  goes  to  Norway,  to  Denmark,  to 
Prussia,  at  last  to  France.  Burr  tried  to  enlist  Na- 
poleon in  his  programmes  of  Southwestern  Empire. 
He  failed;  just  as  failed  Robert  Fulton  when  he  sought 
to  recruit  the  same  personage  for  his  water-campaign 
of  steam.  Burr  met  Talleyrand;  that  crook-foot  rascal 
of  state  who  was  never  grateful  save  for  favors  to  come. 
Burr  had  given  Talleyrand  countenance  in  the  bright 


20C  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

days  of  Richmond  Hill,  and  when  the  Frenchman, 
dodging  the  guillotine,  was  fugitive.  But  that  counted 
for  nothing  in  the  eye  of  Talleyrand,  with  whom  grati- 
tude had  rating  as  vice,  and  any  decent  goodness  of 
memory  for  those  who  had  been  one's  shelter  and  de- 
fense was,  as  he  phrased  it,  that  thing  worse  than 
crime — a  blunder. 

Burr  came  back  to  America  and  practiced  law.  He 
lived  to  be  eighty-one.  His  latter  years  were  poisoned 
of  poverty,  which  last,  as  Lytton  says,  "  is  the  wicked 
man's  tempter,  the  good  man's  perdition,  the  proud 
man's  curse,  the  melancholy  man's  halter."  Burr  was 
poor.  Yet  as  he  fell  not  into  temptation,  nor  took  his 
life  with  a  rope,  one  is  allowed  the  thoughts  that  he  was 
neither  "  wicked "  nor  sad.  How  far,  being  a  good 
man,  he  experienced  the  "  perdition,"  or  being  proud, 
to  what  extent  the  "  curse  "  of  poverty,  Burr  was  in  too 
much  command  of  himself  to  disclose.  One  may  only 
surmise.  Sure  it  is  that  unto  the  day  of  his  death  his 
bright,  dangerous  eyes  looked  folk  in  the  face;  what- 
ever may  have  overtaken  a  world's  respect  for  him,  he 
still  was  in  full  conquest  of  his  own.  From  youth  to 
age,  in  prosperity  or  loss,  no  one  in  glance  or  word  or 
step  of  Burr  beheld  a  change.  He  was  the  man 
immutable. 

And  it  is  this  very  immutability  that  is  the  one  sure 
mark  of  greatness.  The  truly  great,  those  who  are 
great  of  themselves  and  not  of  their  conditions,  are 
changeless.  Go  he  up  or  go  he  down,  the  great  man  is 
ever  the  same. 

Grant,  who  from  a  wood-hauling,  hide-tanning  ob- 
scurity was  a  world's  greatest  soldier  in  five  years,  and 
rode  with  a  million  and  a  half  of  men  at  his  horse's  tail; 


THE  CHANGELESS  BURR.  201 

who  was  twice  President;  who  was  flattered  and  ban- 
queted by  Princes  in  a  round-the-world  progress  such  as 
Kings  had  never  made;  Grant  was  with  it  all  and 
through  it  all  the  same  silent,  modest,  earnest  gentle- 
man whom  folk  knew  before  Lincoln  was  inaugurated, 
or  ever  the  first  standards  of  rebellion  were  free-shaken 
to  the  winds.  Grant  was  great. 

Burr,  who  had  destroyed  the  dynasty  of  Federalism; 
who  was  himself  within  a  vote  of  the  White  House; 
who  had  been  a  Vice  President  and  ruled  a  Senate;  who 
had  dreamed  conquest  like  a  Caesar  and  seen  it  almost 
within  reach,  went  from  high  to  low.  And  yet,  the 
Burr  who  under  fire  bore  the  dead  Montgomery  from 
the  field  of  battle;  the  Burr  who  conquered  in  politics; 
the  Burr  who  guided  a  Senate  in  hours  shaken  of 
passionate  effort;  the  Burr  who  killed  Hamilton  at 
Weehawken;  the  Burr  who  planned  an  empire  at  his 
feet;  the  Burr  who  spread  his  calm  blankets  in  the 
Virginia  jail;  the  Burr  who  lived  his  last  years  and  died 
in  the  folds  of  want,  was  note  for  note,  and  word  for 
word,  and  thought  for  thought,  and  look  for  look  the 
same  unchanging  Burr.  No  success  could  add  to  him, 
while  disaster  took  nothing  away;  no  bad  fortune  nor 
good  was  to  recarve  or  redraw  him  in  any  least  of  detail. 
Burr  was  ever  Burr.  And  Burr,  like  Grant,  was  great. 

Time,  that  last  repositor  of  justice,  will  yet  rear  a 
stone  to  Burr.  And  it  should  appear  thereon  that  he, 
with  Tammany  Hall,  supplementing  at  the  polls  the 
work  of  the  war-fields  of  the  Kevolution,  rescinded  the 
laws  of  Alien  and  Sedition,  rescued  the  country  from 
Monarchy,  set  up  Jefferson  to  be  President  and  not 
Kaiser,  and  fairly,  first  and  for  all  time,  established 
civil  and  religious  liberty  in  this  land. 


XIII. 

THE   VENGEANCE. 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

— Mnzeppa. 

TWEED,  born  in  1823,  was  twenty-three  years  of  age 
when  Kichard  Croker  came  as  a  child  to  America. 
Kelly,  whose  nom  de  guerre  of  "  Honest  "  was  conferred 
on  him  by  popular  voice,  and  under  whose  command 
Kichard  Croker  was  later  to  fight  against  Tweed  and 
his  Ring,  at  the  time  pointed  to  had  witnessed  twenty- 
five  years,  opening  his  first  eyes  in  1821.  Both 
Tweed  and  Kelly  were  native  Americans,  born  and 
cradled  of  the  city  of  New  York. 

When  in  the  sixties  Eichard  Croker  began  his 
life  of  politics  and  became  a  member  of  Tammany  Hall, 
Tweed  was  the  most  powerful  figure  of  that  organiza- 
tion. Tammany  was  not  then  come  to  the  military 
excellence  of  discipline  and  concert  of  movement  which 
it  has  reached  under  the  chiefship  of  Croker.  Condi- 
tions of  "  machine  "  or  military  perfection  arise  from 
characteristics  to  repose  in  the  man  at  the  head;  and 
where  Croker  is  the  soldier,  both  Tweed  and  Kelly  were 
quite  the  opposite.  They  were  lax  and  loose  of  rule; 
and  while  folk  of  unblinking  courage,  and  Kelly 
notably  stubborn  and  obstinate  withal,  they  had  none 

808 


TWEED  AND  KELLY.  203 

of  that  capacity  for  organization  which  forms  men  into 
companies,  into  regiments,  into  brigades,  into  divi- 
sions, into  corps,  into  armies;  and  which  then  moves 
the  whole  as  one.  Neither  Tweed  nor  Kelly  owned 
aught  better  than  commonest  talents  for  labor  of  this 
sort;  Croker's  genius,  on  the  other  hand,  lies  in 
that  direction.  Croker  comes  more  to  the  model  of 
such  as  Cromwell,  whom  his  ancestors  followed  so 
freely;  Kelly  was  rather  a  herd-leader  like  unto  Wat 
Tyler;  Tweed,  a  rogue  whose  end  was  plunder,  is  better 
comparable  to  some  admiral  of  pirates  who,  with  per- 
sonal force  and  courage,  has  no  discipline  about  him, 
and  is  followed  for  spoil  merely;  whose  retainers  leave 
him  and  return  to  him  and  leave  him  again,  as  their 
wills  or  caprices  move,  or  some  appearance  of  present 
advantage  addresses  itself  to  their  eyes.  Tweed's 
people  were  inclined  to  consult  their  own  pleasures  in 
matters  of  obedience,  and  regarded  or  neglected  his 
orders  as  at  the  time  conformed  to  their  tastes. 
Tweed's  forces  were  as  a  band  of  marauders;  Kelly's 
as  a  concourse,  honest  yet  unruly  with  many  views; 
Croker's  following  is  that  marshaled  and  commanded 
army  where  none  disputes,  nor  doubts,  nor  does  aught 
save  as  directed. 

This  latter  is  the  only  thing  to  last.  It  is  the  very 
egg  of  conquest;  and  following  triumph,  can  protect 
itself  in  possession  of  whatever  prize  is  made.  Such 
as  Tweed's  supremacy  cannot  endure,  and  is  in  every 
instance  of  its  assertion  shortly  to  be  stricken  down  as 
the  pertinent  retort  to  its  own  villainies.  Such  con- 
trol as  Kelly's,  being  honest  means  honor  surely,  but 
little  else  beyond.  Undrawn,  straggling,  stricken  of  in- 
concert,  it  is  non-discipline  against  discipline  and 


204  RICHARD  CROKER. 

goeth  forth  only  to  defeat.  Croker's  rule,  better  than 
the  others,  the  rule  of  the  soldier,  is  parent  of  victory 
in  perpetuity;  or,  if  not  quite  the  last,  then  in  such 
stretches  as  make  reasons  for  hard  work  and  grant  to 
war  some  wisdom. 

Tweed's  story  has  been  told  and  retold,  and  much  of 
it  is  part  and  portion  of  the  crime  relation  of  this  town. 
Tweed  lived  and  died.  He  was  in  early  life  of  those 
volunteers  of  fire  whereof  there  has  before  been  word 
or  two  in  these  pages,  and  at  one  time  found  disport  as 
foreman  of  "  Big  Six,"  in  which  water-pumping  office 
he  fought  and  bit  and  gouged  and  smote  himself  into 
much  glorious  renown.  Tweed  was  once  a  Congressman; 
but  the  halls  of  legislation  offered  no  true  stage  for  his 
talent,  which  was  rather  of  the  rude,  burglarious  kind. 

Tweed  held  many  offices,  and  while  throughout  the 
sixties,  he  was,  unchallenged,  the  strongest  spirit  of 
Tammany  Hall,  it  was  not  until  1868,  when  he  caused 
himself  to  be  elected  to  the  legislature  at  Albany,  that 
he  could  point  to  himself  as  the  one,  sole  domineering 
influence  of  that  body.  Then  it  was  that  his  evilisms 
ran  riot.  Then  it  was  he  donated  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars to  the  poor;  when  his  daughter's  nuptials  cost 
seven  hundred  thousand  dollars;  when  he  built  his 
"  Castle,"  still  standing  with  its  Norman  battlements 
and  ivied  walls,  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson;  when  the 
splendors  of  the  Americus  Club — Tweed's  club — out- 
gleamed  the  Orient;  and  when  in  these  things  and 
others,  all  and  sundry,  Tweed  re-enacted  the  criminal 
antics  of  a  Nero  before  the  fall.  Pride  precedeth  over- 
throw, and  puffballs  puff  but  to  be  punctured  and  to 
explode.  Alas!  for  our  American  Caesar!  His  public 
was  not  of  that  innocuous  and  castrate  inconsequence 


THE  WAR  ON  TWEED.  205 

with  those  pathic  hordes  of  Rome.  Destruction  de- 
scended with  the  rush  of  a  storm,  and  the  sweet  echoes 
of  his  daughter's  epithalamion  were  not  died  on  the 
ear  ere  the  roar  of  his  downfall  swept  up  every  other 
sound  besides. 

Years  prior  to  that  end,  however,  Kelly  the 
"Honest,"  knowing  the  ill  doing  of  Tweed,  had  at- 
tacked him  for  the  robber  that  he  was.  And  Richard 
Oroker  was  earliest  and  latest  and  most  trusted  at 
Kelly's  shoulder  in  that  strife.  Kelly  and  Croker,  and 
with  them  such  as  Scannell  and  the  latter's  brother 
Florence,  were  quickly  the  first  to  assail  Tweedism. 
They  fought  Tweed  within  the  walls  of  Tammany, 
and  they  strove  with  him  at  the  elections. 

Tweed  went  down  in  1871  and  '2.  For  the  four 
years  before,  to  their  disgrace  as  time-servers  be  it  writ- 
ten, those  and  all  of  them  to  be  at  last  prominent  in 
Tweed's  taking-off  were  as  well  aware  of  Tweed's  venal- 
ity and  the  looting  of  public  treasure  going  forward,  as 
on  a  day  later  when,  evidence  adduced,  trials  over  and 
convictions  had,  Tweed  lay  dead  in  Ludlow.  For  four 
years  these  good  folk  knew  him  and  his  deeds,  and 
never  moved;  while  two  of  our  excellent  imprints 
shouted  themselves  hoarse  with  editorial  urgings  of  a 
"  Monument  to  Tweed."  For  four  years  our  Choates 
and  our  Tildens,  our  Peckhams  and  our  Noah  Davises, 
were  fully  informed  of  Tweed;  and  never  one  of  them 
to  move  in  condemnation.  Kelly  and  Croker  and  the 
Scannells  and  others  of  their  loyal  tribe  made  manful 
war  on  Tweed.  'And  while  they  did  so  the  town,  half- 
bribed,  half-bullied,  stood  still  and  saw  its  pockets  ran- 
sacked of  the  Ring.  Never  lived  thieves  to  whose  crimes 
came  so  many  accessories  before  the  fact  as  the  Tweed 


206  RICHARD   CROKER. 

thieves;  the  whole  community,  with  the  few  exceptions 
of  stubborn  honor  noted,  were  their  accomplices. 

Those  were  bad,  stained  days,  the  Tweed  days;  they 
are  days  well  gone  and  dead.  They  came  sharp  in  the 
black  wake  of  civil  war.  Take  notice,  you  who  read; 
War  is  ever  corrupt.  The  moral  disintegration  at  the 
rear  is  worse  than  the  death  at  the  front.  Death — sim- 
ple, decent  death — isn't  such  a  disaster,  mauger  the 
hard  assertions  that  Christians  act  and  think  and  make 
against  it.  Death  isn't  understood;  if  it  were,  one 
would  behold  nothing  in  your  catafalques  save  cars  of 
triumph.  Do  you  talk  of  the  horrors  of  war?  They 
are  songs  of  sweetness  to  the  horrors  of  peace,  as  one 
may  learn  who  looks  into  an  east-side  tenement  on  any 
August  night.  The  true  horror  of  war  lies  in  the 
moral  degeneracy  which  grows  on  its  trunk  like  rootless 
mistletoe  on  oak,  and  which  makes  thieves  of  folk  who 
else  had  been  honest  save  for  those  money  temptations 
of  contract-swindle  and  plunder  which  war  placed  in 
their  ways.  War  is  corrupt;  and  the  canker  of  our  civil 
war,  central  in  Washington,  projected  an  influence  of 
sin  on  the  government  of  this  town.  The  New  York 
city  hour,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  hour  national, 
went  reeling  drunk  with  rottenness. 

Tweed  was  overborne,  and  died  in  his  cage  of  Lud- 
low.  The  public  was  avenged.  Nor  were  Tweed's 
robberies  during  the  years  of  his  bad  domination  the 
worst  element  of  his  rule.  Those  who  opposed  him  too 
vigorously  were  not  safe  of  life,  liberty,  and  limb. 
Tweed  controlled  the  courts,  the  public  attorneys,  the 
juries,  the  sheriff,  and  the  police.  Tweed  was  the  law; 
his  word  was  statute,  he  had  but  to  lift  his  finger  to 
cause  its  carrying  out.  Offensive  partisanship  was  a 


OFFENSIVE  PARTISANSHIP.  207 

"  crime  "  of  moment  and  serious  sequence;  and  many 
an  honest  rebel  against  Tweed  was  taught  a  terror- 
lesson  in  proof  of  it.  Hundreds  of  men  innocent  were 
sentenced  and  sent  to  terms  of  Sing  Sing  for  crimes 
that  never  had  commission. 

That  man  marked  of  the  King  and  against  whom 
"  word  had  been  sent  out " — he  who,  by  the  success  of 
his  opposition  or  the  truth  he  told,  had  grown  danger- 
ous to  the  Ring — might  be  walking  the  street.  A 
policeman's  sudden  hand  would  grip  his  shoulder. 

"  Come  with  me,"  says  the  Tweed  myrmidon  in  blue. 

"  This  is  a  mistake,"  cries  the  innocent  one. 

He  is  wrong;  it  is  no  mistake;  he  is  borne  to  the 
station. 

"What's  the  charge?"  asks  the  sergeant. 

"  Robbery,"  replies  the  officer;  "  he  stole  a  watch  and 
here  it  is."  And  with  this  last  word  the  watch  is  taken 
from  the  other's  pocket  where  the  officer  slipped  it 
but  a  moment  before. 

"Who  complains  against  the  prisoner?"  asks  the 
sergeant,  as  he  continues  to  blotter  down  the  particu- 
lars. 

"  I  do."  The  speaker  is  an  individual  on  whom  the 
prisoner's  eyes  have  never  rested-  a  mere  hired  per- 
jurer of  the  Ring.  Of  such  false  witness  there  were 
hundreds,  Ring-trained,  to  make  oath  to  order. 

"  I  do,"  repeats  the  creature,  while  the  dazed  quarry 
of  this  Ring-hunting  dumbly  stares.  "  The  watch  is 
mine.  This  man,"  pointing  to  the  accused,  "  lifted  it 
from  my  pocket.  The  officer  saw  him  do  it." 

Then  followed  trial,  conviction,  and  sentence  in  mer- 
ciless quickstep.  Then  came  the  term  in  prison.  It 
was  longer  or  shorter,  contingent  on  what  power  of 


208  RICHARD   CHOKER. 

harm  to  the  Ring  the  victim  possessed.  If  he  were  of 
slighter  sort,  a  year;  twenty,  if  he  were  manifest  peril 
to  the  Ring.  This  process  was  styled  "  putting  away  "; 
and  an  upright  many  came  to  suffer  therefrom. 

Ring-fears  and  Ring-revenges  dictated  these  deeds. 
And  when  Sing  Sing  didn't  promise  entire  Ring- 
security  the  man  obnoxious  was  murdered.  There 
were  bravos  at  the  beck  of  the  Ring  who  would  snuff 
out  life  on  the  slightest  nod  of  the  powers  that  were, 
and  with  as  little  of  scruple  as  might  attend  the  imbi- 
bition of  a  glass  of  rum.  The  victim  was  "  waylaid  by 
footpads/'  or  "  died  by  hands  unknown,"  or  even  "  com- 
mitted suicide,"  just  as  accident,  or  a  word  let  fall, 
opened  a  door  to  that  Ring  jury  at  the  inquest  for  a 
phrase  of  explanation.  And  that — the  Coroner's  re- 
turn— was  the  closing  in  of  the  crimson  picture.  The 
Ring  murdered  as  well  as  robbed.  And  it  robbed  folk 
of  liberty  and  good  repute,  while  it  robbed  the  town's 
strong  box  of  its  money. 

There  is  a  story  to  tell — a  story  of  murder  and  retri- 
bution. The  story  is  germane  to  this  work,  for  it  por- 
trays conditions  under  the  Ring.  Eighteen  hundred 
and  sixty-nine  was  the  year.  Tweed  and  his  crime- 
grimed  coterie  were  at  fullest  head  of  power.  There 
were  two  brothers,  Scannells:  Florence  Scannell,  aged 
twenty-three,  and  for  two  terms  prior  a  member  of  the 
city  council;  and  John  Scannell, — of  whom  we  have 
had  former  word  in  this  book, — aged  thirty,  at  that 
time  holding  no  office,  since  of  regard  as  the  city's  Fire 
Commissioner.  The  Scannells  were  folk  of  respect  and 
note.  Also  they  were  forces  of  politics.  The  Scan- 
nells were  among  the  most  dauntless  of  the  Ring's  foes; 
they  fought  Tweedism  by  day  and  by  night.  Florence 


FLORENCE  SCANNELL.  209 

Scannell,  from  his  place  in  the  city  council,  was  a 
menacing  grief  to  the  Eing. 

In  December  of  1869  Florence  Scannell  was  in  a  can- 
vass for  his  third  term,  with  victory — despite  the 
Ring's  worst  efforts — assured.  The  Ring  was  des- 
perate. For  two  council  terms  Florence  Scannell  had 
been  a  blundering  block  in  the  paths  of  Ring  license. 
Money  couldn't  buy  him,  it  had  been  tried;  threats  were 
powerless,  for  recourse  had  been  made  to  them.  Nor 
did  the  time-worn  trick  of  arrest  and  trial  and  sentence 
to  Sing  Sing  on  false  charges  offer  certainty  of  success 
in  the  dangerous  occasion  of  the  Scannells.  They 
were  rich,  prominent,  of  coolest  courage;  moreover, 
they  were  intrenched  as  behind  ramparts  in  the  friend- 
ships of  a  multitude.  But  the  Ring  was  urged  of  a 
great  need;  Florence  Scannell  must  be  "  stopped  "  at 
any  bloody  cost;  he  must  not  return  to  the  council. 

And  the  "  word  " — that  word  which  no  man  heard 
and  all  men  understood — was  sent  among  the  Danites 
of  the  Ring;  Florence  Scannell  must  be  dealt  with. 
There  was  no  plan;  no  suggestion  of  when,  or  how,  or 
by  whom  the  murder  was  to  have  accomplishment; 
that  was  left  to  the  decision  of  event.  But  the 
"  word  "  was  in  the  ears  of  a  dozen  Ring  assassins,  any 
one  of  whom  was  to  act  on  the  first  safe  chance  that 
proffered. 

Florence  Scannell  must  die — die  that  the  Ring  might 
live  in  its  crimes,  uninterrupted.  And  the  doom  de- 
nounced of  Florence  Scannell  went  also  to  John  Scan- 
nell; both  were  perilous  folk,  the  Ring  feared  them, 
and  both  by  Ring  edict  were  devoted  to  death. 

John  Scannell  cared  nothing  for  politics  save  what 
pride  and  joy  he  found  in  the  triumphs  of  his  brother, 


210  RICHARD  CROKER. 

for  whom  he  felt  more  than  brother's  love.  He  was 
little  of  the  politician  in  the  common  city  sense;  his 
thought  was  for  books.  He  was  among  the  world's 
scholars  of  Shakspere.  His  pronounced  attributes 
were  tastes  for  romance  and  adventure*.  John  Scan- 
nell  came  three  centuries  too  late;  he  would  have  been 
feather  for  feather  and  to  the  glance  of  an  eye  the  man 
with  Drake  and  Raleigh  and  Oxenham  and  Amyas 
Leigh  in  Kingsley's  "Westward  Ho!" 

It  was  registration  in  December,  1869.  The  vote  of 
the  city — the  local  elections  were  then  held  late  in 
December — was  making  that  preliminary  answer  to  its 
name  required  of  the  law.  The  Ring,  set  to  the  de- 
feat of  Florence  Scannell  by  all  foul  methods  since  it 
might  not  be  fairly  brought  about,  was  with  the  use  of 
repeaters  falsely  swelling  the  registration  whereon  to 
lay  foundation  for  the  final  steal.  Florence  Scannell, 
together  with  John  Scannell,  was  busily  about  in 
efforts  to  prevent  these  wrongs  of  the  Ring. 

There  was  one,  Donahue,  who  kept  a  drinking  place 
at  Twenty-third  Street  and  Second  Avenue.  This 
Donahue  was  himself  of  the  Ring's  Danites.  He  had 
killed  his  man  and  nearly  slain  his  second.  His  drink- 
ing den  was  a  harbor  for  Ring  criminals. 

Donahue  had  office  ambitions.  He  argued  with  a 
dark  sagacity  that  were  he  to  "  remove "  Florence 
Scannell,  the  Ring  would  not  only  protect  him  from 
the  law — which  in  that  day  was  the  Ring's  will — but 
prefer  him  to  some  coign  of  party  height  and  fatness. 

On  registration  day  Donahue's  resort  was  made  head- 
quarters for  those  imported  "  repeaters  "  who  were  to 
be  used  in  that  ward.  There  were  fourscore  or  more 
of  these  ruffians  in  the  room  to  the  rear  of  Donahue's 


211 

bar.  Florence  Scannell,  accompanied  by  John  Scan- 
nell, on  the  scent  of  fraud,  came  into  Donahue's. 
Florence  Scannell,  aware  of  the  whereabouts  of  the 
"repeaters/'  walked  to  the  door  of  the  rear  room 
and  sought  to  enter.  The  door  was  locked.  Donahue 
stood  behind  the  bar. 

"  Don't  go  in  there! "  cried  Donahue  to  Florence 
Scannell  as  the  latter  tried  the  door. 

There  was  murder  in  Donahue's  heart.  It  glowed 
dully  in  his  bleary  eye;  and  had  the  Scannells  been  a 
whit  less  brave,  and  therefore  a  bit  more  cautious,  they 
might  have  noted  it. 

"  Don't  go  in  there,"  said  Donahue. 

Florence  Scannell,  baffled  by  the  locked  door,  turned 
and  stood  against  the  bar.  His  elbows  rested  on  it; 
his  back  was  to  the  bar  and  to  Donahue.  One  in  the 
room  with  the  "repeaters"  unlocked  the  door.  John 
Scannell  pushed  it  open  and  entered  among  them. 
About  one  hundred  men  were  therein  gathered.  The 
entrance  of  John  Scannell  fell  like  a  fear  upon  these 
lawbreakers.  They  deemed  him  the  advance  of  jus- 
tice in  pursuit  of  them.  With  that,  many  sought  to 
be  rid  of  the  place;  there  was  a  deal  of  commotion;  the 
door  through  which  John  Scannell  had  entered  was 
closed  in  the  stampede. 

At  the  top  of  the  hubbub  a  shot  rang  forth  in  the 
barroom.  John  Scannell,  closed  into  the  rear  room, 
couldn't  see  and  would  only  guess  the  reason  of  that 
firing.  Donahue,  seizing  ,  the  safe  advantage  of 
Florence  Scannell's  position  and  John  Scannell's 
absence  from  the  scene,  had  shot  the  younger  Scan- 
nell in  the  back.  There  was  no  word  of  warning;  be- 
tween them  passed  no  looks  of  difference;  murder 


212  RICHARD  CROKER. 

cold  and  safe  and  cowardly  it  was,  and  the  victim's  first 
touch  of  his  peril  was  a  bullet  in  his  back.  The  effect 
was  to  paralyze;  Florence  Scannell  slipped  to  the  floor 
without  falling,  and  as  John  Scannell  rushed  in,  his 
eye  rested  first  on  his  brother  half  lying  against  the 
base  of  the  bar.  In  front  of  him  stood  a  lesser  thug  of 
the  Ring. 

John  Scannell's  hand  sought  his  pistol,  a  44-caliber 
Colt's.  There  was  a  flash  and  a  crash;  the  Ring  thug 
fell,  shot  through  the  neck. 

"  John,  it  was  Donahue,"  whispered  Florence  Scan- 
nell. 

John  Scannell  sprang  to  the  front  door.  Donahue, 
fear-spurred,  was  a  block  away,  pistol  in  hand,  running 
with  all  speed. 

To  see  was  to  act;  an  instant  and  John  Scannell  was 
in  pursuit.  The  glance  he  gave  his  brother  as  he 
passed  told  him  that  the  latter  was  wounded  to  the 
death.  Whereupon  a  great  hunger  of  revenge  seized 
him  and  swallowed  him  up. 

Donahue  made  what  speed  he  might,  but  a  vicious 
life  was  clogging  him.  His  pursuer,  perfect  of  habit, 
was  hate-winged  with  the  one  vast  thought  of  ven- 
geance. The  sharp  chase  of  John  Scannell  was  over- 
whelming the  murderer. 

Donahue,  whose  frightened  eye  each  moment  swept 
his  shoulder,  beheld  his  fate  as  it  was  descending  upon 
him.  Despair  had  almost  claimed  him.  There  was  a 
police  station  near  at  hand.  If  Donahue  could  but  win 
to  that,  he  would  be  safe;  the  police — the  Ring  police — 
would  protect  him.  They  were  allies  as  well  as  officers. 
This  thought  upheld  the  murderer.  He  begged  of  all 
his  energies;  they  granted  strength;  he  panted  to  the 


JOHN  80 ANN  ELL'S  VOW.  213 

door.  Scannell's  pistol  cracked,  and  Donahue  fell  in 
among  the  police.  The  Scannell  bullet  had  shattered 
an  arm.  It  was  a  long  shot;  still  Hate  and  Kevenge 
have  eyes  of  hawks;  the  bullet  reached,  though  it  only 
wounded. 

John  Scannell,  heavy  of  heart,  carried  his  brother  to 
the  hospital.  Then  he  gave  bail  on  charges  of  shoot- 
ing both  the  Ring  ruffian,  whom  he  mistook  for  the 
murderer,  and  Donahue  wounded  in  the  door  of  the 
police.  Donahue,  the  assassin  of  Florence  Scannell, 
was  not  arrested.  Such  was  the  hardihood,  not  to  say 
the  power,  of  the  Ring. 

Florence  Scannell  lived  eight  months  and  was  dying 
every  moment.  Paralyzed — for  the  bullet  had  struck 
his  spine — he  reposed  on  a  cot,  without  motion  and 
while  life  wasted  away. 

Florence  Scannell  was  powerless  to  move,  but  he 
could  talk.  And  each  day  he  besought  John  Scannell, 
who  hung  over  him,  to  cry  off  that  vendetta  which  he 
had  sworn  against  Donahue. 

"  If  you  die,"  said  John  Scannell,  "  and  the  law 
doesn't  punish  Donahue,  I  shall  have  his  life.  If  the 
law  fails,  I  will  myself  take  that  justice  which  is  mine." 

For  eight  months  the  dying  Florence  wrestled  with 
his  brother  for  the  life  of  him  who  was  his  murderer. 
But  his  strivings  were  of  no  avail.  The  resolves  of 
John  Scannell  had  set  as  relentlessly  as  water-chilled 
steel.  He  would  have  life  for  life;  an  eye  for  an  eye 
and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  There  was  something  ethnic 
in  the  grim  resolve  of  John  Scannell;  and  his  gray  eyes, 
soft  enough  with  sympathy  as  he  bent  above  his 
brother,  turned  agate-hard  with  the  first  naming  of 
Donahue. 


su  RICHARD  CRORBR. 

While  Florence  Scannell,  bound  to  his  cot,  was 
dying,  the  election  took  place.  In  the  teeth  of  the 
Eing  he  was  successful.  But  the  Ring  promised 
to  rectify  that  "  error."  On  the  "  official "  count 
Florence  Scannell  would  be  defeated.  John  Scannell 
heard  this  crooked  news. 

There  was  one  who  stood  for  the  wisdom  of  Tweed. 
He  will  not  here  be  named.  Suffice  it  that  he  was  the 
Tweed  intelligence;  the  potent  one  behind  the  throne 
of  the  Eing. 

This  wise  one,  and  potential,  was  alone  at  his  desk. 
It  was  the  scant,  gray  afternoon  of  the  December 
solstice.  .The  door  opened  and  John  Scannell  stood 
before  him.  He  wore  the  tranquil  air  that  was  com- 
mon with  him. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  said  Scannell  to  the  po- 
tential one,  "for  this  unannounced  invasion.  But  I 
had  a  most  important  word  to  communicate." 

"What  is  it?"  queried  the  potential  one,  not  much 
at  ease  with  his  formidable  visitor,  calmly  the  finished 
gentleman  though  that  visitor  might  be.  "What  is 
this  that  you  should  tell  me?" 

"My  brother,"  observed  Scannell,  "lies  nigh  unto 
death.  There  is  small,  if  any,  hope  of  his  recovery. 
He  was  fairly  elected  at  the  polls.  Despite  that  fact, 
your  corrupt  board  is  about,  officially,  to  'count  him 
out/  My  thought  is  that  if  my  brother  were  given  the 
certificate  of  election  it  would  be  as  medicine  in  wine 
to  him.  It  might  aid  him  to  be  well." 

"Very  right,"  replied  the  potential  one;  "I'll  look 
into  the  matter  and  let  you  hear  from  me  in  a  few 


John  Scannell  closed  the  door  which  had  stood  ajar. 


THE  MATTER  CONFIDENTAL.  215 

When  he  again  turned  to  the  potential  one  his  pistol 
was  in  one  hand  and  his  watch  in  the  other. 

"  I  will  give  you  one  minute,"  said  Scannell,  and  his 
tones  were  cool  and  true,  "  wherein  to  promise  that 
my  brother  will  not  be  robbed  of  his  election.  If  the 
minute  dies  wanting  that  assurance,  I'll  kill  you  where 
you  are." 

In  the  gray  depths  of  those  eyes  bent  upon  him,  the 
man  of  power  read  his  death  half  told.  The  whole 
dread  story  would  be  finished  unless  within  the  pent 
spaces  of  a  minute  he  interrupted  its  recital  with  a 
promise.  It  was  fate;  and  the  one  potential  doffed  his 
hat  to  it.  He  promised.  Scannell  returned  his  pistol 
and  was  about  to  depart. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  word,"  said  he  to  the  potential 
one,  "  for  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  wise  enough  to 
keep  it." 

"  I'll  keep  my  word,"  faltered  the  other,  "  but  I  re- 
quest you  to  say  nothing  of  our  interview." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  brother  lay  with  Dona- 
hue's bullet  in  his  life,  the  least  shadow  of  a  smile  fell 
across  the  face  of  John  Scannell. 

"You  need  take  no  alarm,"  he  observed;  "I'll  re- 
gard our  interview  as  confidential." 

Florence  Scannell  was  given  the  election;  the  man 
of  potency  had  kept  his  word.  Also,  as  reward  of  it, 
the  potential  one  at  full  threescore  still  dwells  among 
us  in  quiet  ease  and  peace. 

Those  months  to  follow  the  day  when  he  was  shot 
down  by  Donahue  went  tiptoeing  into  the  past,  and  the 
hour  of  death  came  on  for  Florence  Scannell.  Worn 
of  pain  and  starved  by  sickness,  he  was  only  the 
shade  of  what  he  was.  John  Scannell  was  with  him, 


216  RICHARD   CROKER. 

as  he  had  been  day  and  night.  The  one  dying,  too 
weak  to  speak  aloud,  motioned  his  brother  to  draw 
nearer. 

"John,"  he  whispered,  "I  shall  not  live  an  hour. 
And  before  I  die  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you.  I  feel 
differently  about  Donahue;  and  now  that  I  die  I  want 
to  leave  his  punishment  to  his  conscience.  If  he  were 
here^and  I  held  his  life  in  my  hand,  I'd  give  it  back  to 
him.  John,  you're  my  oldest  brother  and  my  best  and 
oldest  friend.  You  never  refused  me  in  my  life.  I 
have  one  last  request.  I  want  you  to  spare  Donahue." 

"Florrie,"  replied  his  brother,  and  the  tears  were 
wet  on  his  face — "  Florrie,  so  surely  as  you  die  and  I 
live,  I  shall  kill  Donahue." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.     Then: 

"  John,"  whispered  the  other,  "  you  have  broken  my 
heart." 

And  he  died  without  further  word. 

On  the  cot  was  the  dead,  and  by  its  side  knelt  the  liv- 
ing; and  there  John  Scannell  made  his  vow  anew  that, 
be  it  late  or  be  it  soon,  be  it  far  or  be  it  near,  yet  should 
his  vengeance  find  a  time.  He  would  have  life  for  life; 
he  would  pay  with  death  his  debt  of  death. 

John  Scannell  made  a  visit  to  Donahue.  His  hope 
was  to  force  him  forth  to  battle;  he  would  not  kill  him 
as  his  brother  was  slain;  Donahue  should  have  his 
chance.  Scannell  was  coldly  steady  when  he  found 
his  man. 

"  My  brother  is  dead,"  said  he,  "  and  you  murdered 
him.  If  you  had  killed  him  in  honest  quarrel  and  with 
his  face  towards  you,  I  would  not  harbor  thought 
against  you.  But  this  was  murder — murder  plain  and 
cowardly.  You  killed  him  when  he  had  no  differ- 


DONAHUE'S  FEAR.  217 

ence  with  you,  and  while  his  back  was  turned.  For 
what  you  did  there's  no  excuse,  nor  shall  you  find 
escape.  Yet  I  will  deal  better  by  you  than  you 
did  with  him.  You  shall  see  your  death  and  defend 
yourself  against  me;  your  hand  shall  hold  every  ad- 
vantage that  I  hold  in  mine.  You  must  come  and 
fight.  You  should  not  hesitate;  you  are  not  new  to 
weapons  nor  to  taking  life.  You  have  already  killed 
two  men,  and  dearly  wounded  one.  And  you  must 
come  with  me.  To  help  you  to  decision,  I  promise 
it's  your  only  door  to  safety.  You've  killed  my  brother. 
You  must  now  kill  me  or  I  shall  kill  you." 

Donahue  turned  white  as  paper.  Donahue  was  bold, 
but  there  was  that  so  inveterate  in  the  one  before  him, 
he  seemed  so  fraught  of  all  that  crushed  and  killed, 
that  Donahue  shrank  from  him  as  from  a  mystery  of 
midnight.  Donahue  smelled  his  death  off  Scannell  as 
kine  smell  in  the  wind  the  unborn  storm.  Donahue 
refused  to  meet  with  Scannell. 

Four  days  had  passed.  Donahue,  in  company  of  two 
of  his  adherents,  was  walking  in  Fourth  Avenue. 
Scannell  leaped  from  a  carriage  and  approached  Don- 
ahue. As  he  came  near  he  called  to  the  other: 

"  Get  ready;  you  are  not  to  be  killed  without  de- 
fense." 

Donahue  turned  and  fled;  he  was  gone  in  a  twinkling. 
Scannell  made  no  attempt  to  shoot  nor  follow;  his 
thought  was  still  to  have  his  man  at  bay. 

There  was  that  to  happen  which  would  show 
Scannell  that  his  enemies  were  not  so  frank  as  he. 
He  was  waylaid  on  Twenty-eighth  Street  by  seven 
bravos  of  the  Eing.  The  notorious  Owney  Geoghegan 
was  at  their  van.  Their  "  orders  "  were  to  slay  Scan- 


218  RICHARD  CROKER. 

nell  on  sight.  The  seven  poured  a  volley  against  him. 
But  his  own  pistol  spoke  with  theirs;  and  as  he  fell 
with  three  wounds,  a  bullet-convulsed  brigand  re- 
mained to  bear  him  bleeding  company.  The  others 
fled.  As  they  ran,  the  indomitable  Scannell  raised  his 
shot  body  and  fired  twice.  Each  bullet  stopped  an 
enemy.  There  were  no  deaths  to  be  the  result  of  this 
attempted  assassination.  Scannell  recovered,  as  did 
also  the  wounded  trio  of  would-be  murderers.  The 
King  still  sought  to  compass  his  death.  The  King 
again  "  ordered "  it,  but  there  was  now  none  among 
the  Danites  of  a  courage  to  hunt  this  Hector. 

Following  this  last  collision  John  Scannell  disap- 
peared. Some  there  were  to  say  that  he'd  left  the 
town;  others  told  that  he  was  still  here,  but  disguised; 
the  thing  sure,  however,  was  that  none  might  make 
certain  of  aught  concerning  him.  And  with  that,  not 
alone  Donahue,  but  Tweed  and  Sweeny  and  Hall  and 
others  of  the  Ring's  highest,  went  nervously  lest  their 
lives,  too,  were  written  in  the  books  of  Scannell. 

Donahue  remained,  for  the  great  part,  out  of  town. 
He  crept  to  his  home  at  intervals  to  lie  in  hiding  for 
a  day  or  two;  then  he  would  flit  again.  A  fugitive  day 
and  night,  Donahue's  every  moment  was  fevered  of 
fear,  and  his  life  already  fallen  into  a  semi-eclipse  of 
death. 

It  was  a  few  months  following  the  attack  of  the  seven 
Danites  on  Scannell.  Donahue  came  secretly  to  his 
home.  The  night  following,  with  two  others,  Donahue 
was  about  in  one  of  the  more  retired  streets.  Sud- 
denly, and  wanting  sign  or  warning,  one  whom  none 
recognized  stood  before  them  in  the  gloom.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken;  there  was  the  bluff  bark  of  a  Der- 


A  MAN  AND  A  DERRINGER.  219 

ringer,  and  Donahue  fell,  shot  through  the  body.  The 
stranger  disappeared  like  a  dark  ghost,  as  he  had  come 
like  one. 

Donahue,  tenacious  to  live,  got  well  of  this  wound  as 
of  the  first;  but  before  the  fact  was  abroad,  he  had  gone 
where  no  one  knew. 

It  is  a  curious  thought,  and  one  which  tells  for 
the  self-centered  sort  of  Scannell,  that  none  dared 
speak  to  him  of  Donahue.  Eichard  Croker,  his  nearest 
friend,  was  asked  to  interpose  his  influence  with  Scan- 
nell. Croker  shook  his  head. 

"  I'd  give  all  I'm  worth,"  he  said,  "  and  ten  years  off 
my  life,  if  the  matter  might  end  as  it  is.  It's  bad;  and 
more  will  make  it  worse.  But  " — and  Croker  paused — 
"  but  I  can't  speak  to  him.  I  best  know  John  Scannell 
of  all  his  friends;  I've  no  closer  friend  myself  than  he; 
but  I  don't  know  him  well  enough  for  that." 

Now  come  we  to  the  last  act  of  this  tragedy;  a 
tragedy  born  of  conditions  peculiar  to  the  dynasty  of 
Tweed.  The  time  was  November  of  1872.  The  day 
was  Saturday.  Lacking  a  fortnight,  three  years  had 
slipped  away  on  the  slow  tides  of  eternity  since  the 
murder  of  Florence  Scannell.  Donahue  was  never 
seen  these  days,  and  seldom  heard  of.  Now  and  again 
a  half  whisper  would  go  about  that  Donahue  had  been 
in  town,  but  was  fled  again.  John  Scannell,  on  his 
part,  was  about  in  his  own  affairs,  calm,  equal,  and  cold; 
he  never  smiled  and  never  spoke  of  Donahue. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day.  In  a  basement  at 
the  northwest  corner  of  Broadway  and  Twenty-eighth 
Street,  and  under  the  present  "  Fifth  Avenue  Theater," 
was  a  poolroom.  John  Scannell,  who  was  walking  in 
Broadway  at  the  time,  paused  and  entered,  Donahue 


220  RICHARD  CROKER. 

was  not  in  his  thoughts;  he  believed  him  full  one 
thousand  miles  away  and  more,  for  a  waif-word  blew 
about  that  Donahue's  refuge  was  Havana.  ScannelPs 
fires  of  vengeance  glowed  as  hotly  as  ever,  but  by  long 
waiting  they  had  become  banked.  In  the  lapse  of  years 
the  tooth  of  sharp  expectancy  had  dulled.  Scannell 
wasn't  longing  and  looking  to  find  his  foe  with  every 
moment,  as  was  earlier  true. 

John  Scannell  entered  the  poolroom.  There  were 
full  two  hundred  in  the  place.  Scannell  saw  only  one. 
Before  him  stood  Donahue.  That  man  who  had  slain 
his  brother,  and  for  whom  he  had  hoped  and  hunted, 
was  delivered  into  his  hand.  Almost  three  years  had 
sped  since  John  Scannell  beheld  his  brother  lying  in 
bloody  helplessness,  and  worse  than  dead,  by  the  hand 
of  this  man.  The  picture  was  with  him  still.  Almost 
three  years  had  gone — more  than  one  thousand  days 
and  one  thousand  nights — and  each  day  he  had  re- 
sworn  himself  to  vengeance;  and  each  night  he  had 
prayed  that  the  hour  might  come.  It  was  here,  and  he 
welled  with  happiness.  The  murky  glory  of  the  mo- 
ment filled  his  heart;  his  pleasure  overflowed  in 
laughter. 

John  Scannell  gazed  on  Donahue.  The  dogged  mo- 
ments seemed  to  pause.  ScannelPs  face  shone  with  a 
smile.  His  eyes  were  lighted  brightly  up  yet  pleas- 
antly, with  the  lamps  of  a  white  hate.  Donahue, 
opposite,  was  as  one  of  stone,  and  with  a  cheek  of 
ashes.  Donahue  had  courage;  but  it  was  of  bludgeon 
kind;  it  would  not  carry  him  against  this  man  of  joy 
and  death.  Donahue  couldn't  command  himself,  he  was 
in  a  dream  of  horror.  Gripped  in  his  right  hand,  and 
hidden  in  his  coat,  was  a  heavy  pistol.  It  was  found 


DEATH  AND  HIS  PREY.  221 

frozen  in  his  fingers  when  he  was  dead.  Donahue 
pointed  this  weapon  at  Scannell  through  his  coat;  but 
his  hand  was  nerveless,  he  couldn't  fire.  Twice  he 
called  in  a  dry,  hoarse  voice  like  a  raven's  croak: 

"John!" 

And  again,  "  John!  " 

Donahue  was  calling  to  one  who  should  have  been 
with  him.  Scannell  smiled  only  the  more.  The 
blood  of  his  brother  was  calling  to  him. 

John  Scannell  still  looked  on  Donahue  while  the 
moments  snailed  away.  Scannell  reflected  of  Donahue 
as  with  a  comic  lightness  that  matched  the  smile  on 
his  lips.  This  was  what  he  thought: 

"  They  say  you're  bullet-proof,  and  that  no  lead  will 
kill  you.  Perhaps  this  is  true.  And  I'll  make  a 
promise  in  your  favor.  If  you  live  through  this— if 
you  get  by  me  this  time,  I'll  call  my  vengeance  off — I'll 
let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead." 

Something  of  that  was  running  in  the  mind  of  Scan- 
nell. Then  his  thought  went  to  other  matters.  He 
could  see  that  Donahue  grasped  in  his  hand  a  pistol. 
He  hoped  that  Donahue  would  shoot.  Scannell  cared 
not  if  he  died  or  no;  he  was  sure  in  his  heart  that  he 
would  live  to  kill  Donahue,  and  that  was  all  his  prayer. 
From  the  first  Scannell  spoke  never  a  word;  Donahue 
at  intervals  called: 

"John!  "huskily. 

Then  a  third  thought  came  to  Scannell.  "  My  pistol 
carries  the  heaviest  of  balls.  When  I  shoot  this  man, 
the  bullet  will  go  through  and  through  and  wound 
or  kill  one  of  those  behind." 

There  was  truth  in  this;  for,  as  Scannell  stood  in  the 
door,  the  onlookers,  as  pale  as  Donahue, — for  each  fore- 


222  RICHARD   CROKER. 

saw  the  sequel, — were  crowded  to  the  rear,  and  in  the 
line  of  fire.  This  would  not  do;  Scannell  wanted  no 
man's  blood  but  one's. 

Scannell  began  to  pace  slowly  around  Donahue.  The 
other,  fear-stiffened  and  incapable,  could  only  turn 
to  meet  him.  Scannell  ceased  not  to  smile.  His  un- 
winking eyes  did  not  waver  from  the  eyes  of  Donahue. 
The  latter  was  held  as  by  a  spell.  Slowly  Scannell 
went  about  Donahue  to  the  right,  never  widening, 
never  lessening  the  distance.  At  the  last  he  had  forced 
Donahue  cross-wise  of  the  room,  with  naught  behind 
him  save  the  safe,  insensate  wall.  The  time  had  come. 

Not  until  then  did  Scannell's  hand  seek  his  weapon. 
And  he  went  slowly  after  it,  with  pauses  full  of  pleas- 
ant hesitation.  Scannell  still  tacitly  called  Donahue  to 
action.  It  was  not  to  be.  Donahue  was  as  rigidly 
helpless  as  a  statue  of  ice.  With  iron  deliberation 
Scannell  drew  his  pistol.  Donahue,  licking  a  dry  lip, 
stood  at  gaze  and  as  one  planet-struck. 

"Bang!" 

Between  those  murderous  eyes  which  had  lined  the 
shot  that  stole  his  brother's  life,  Scannell's  revenge 
went  crashing.  Donahue  crippled  forward,  half- 
turned,  and  with  a  sob,  which  broke  on  Scannell  like  a 
tune  of  music,  fell  headlong  down. 

John  Scannell  looked  on  his  prone  enemy  for  a 
moment  while  his  bosom  filled  with  the  tides  of  a 
generous  peace.  It  was  as  though  a  stone  had  been 
rolled  from  his  heart.  Then  he  went  slowly  forth,  and 
no  hour  had  seemed  so  sweet  nor  the  world  so  bright 
before. 

An  officer  touched  his  elbow.  Scannell  turned  and 
followed  him.  The  officer  led  the  way.  The  dead 


VENGEANCE  18  MINE!  223 

Donahue  was  where  he  fell.  A  captain  of  police  stood 
close  at  hand. 

"  Do  you  see  your  work?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"  I  do."  The  sudden  sparkle  to  glance  in  Scannell's 
eyes  showed  how  burned  the  fires  to  be  kindled  in  a 
brother's  breast  by  a  brother's  murder.  "  I  do;  I  see 
my  work;  observe  how  I  approve  it." 

"  Bang! " 

And  Scannell  sent  a  bullet  through  the  dead  Dona- 
hue as  he  had  sent  one  through  the  living  Donahue  be- 
fore. The  body  jumped  on  the  floor  with  the  springy 
concussion  of  the  shot,  and  then  lay  still.  The  ven- 
geance of  John  Scannell  was  full. 


XIV. 

JOHN    KELLY. 

Statesman,  yet  friend  to  truth  !  of  soul  sincere, 
In  actions  faithful,  and  in  honor  clear  ! 
Who  broke  no  promise,  served  no  private  end, 
Who  gained  no  title  and  who  lost  no  friend. 

—Pope. 

JOHN  SCANNELL  was  made  acquit  by  jury  for  the 
taking-off  of  Donahue.  The  argument  to  lead  to  his 
enlargement  was  the  full  pistol  fast  in  the  death-grip 
of  Donahue's  right  hand.  It  assumed  a  peril  for  Scan- 
nell,  and  by  that  word  the  twelve  men  vouchsafed  him 
free  and  blameless. 

From  this  acquittal  of  Scannell  an  essay  might  be 
reared.  The  twelve  who  heard  and  made  decision  were 
born  to  the  manor,  all  and  each  Americans.  Their  an- 
cestry for  more  than  one  remove  in  every  instance  was 
American.  Had  it  been  a  jury  of  folk  emanate  of 
Europe  an  opposite  settlement  might  well  have  been 
arrived  at.  Your  American  is  a  sentimentalist;  your 
European,  comparatively,  is  not.  The  latter  lacks 
in  imagination.  And  he  has  been  adjusted  and  re- 
adjusted in  all  his  rights  and  wrongs,  for  over  two 
thousand  years,  by  force  and  effort  of  the  law.  Where- 
fore his  natural  thought  has  been  revamped  and  made 
over  until  his  notion  of  justice  is  his  knowledge  of  law. 
If  it  be  law,  it  is  right  to  your  European;  and  thereby 
the  converse  of  "  wrong,  if  illegal,"  is  equally  alert. 

Your   American   with   imagination,   and   therefore 


THE  UNELA8TIC  ALIEN,  225 

ideals,  and  therefore  sentiment,  does  not  adhere  to  this 
theory  of  Europe.  He  has  his  law;  yes.  And  he  will 
follow  it — with  limitations.  Your  American  has  hia 
law  of  murder  builded  on  models  English.  It  is  no 
more,  in  its  terms  or  their  construction,  gifted  with 
gates  of  escape  than  are  the  laws  of  England,  Germany, 
or  France.  But  back  in  the  recesses  of  American  sen- 
timentalism  there  are  maintained  exceptions.  These 
make  a  safety  for  many  who,  by  strict  letter  being 
transgressors,  would  otherwise  be  lost. 

In  this  gloomy  business  of  homicide,  your  man  of 
Europe,  fitting  law  to  fact,  would  cut  and  baste  and 
stitch  a  guilty  verdict  as  a  tailor  might  a  garment.  But 
without  and  above  and  beyond  strict  terms  of  statute 
your  American  can  understand  a  justice.  The  reading 
of  his  law  would  grant  one  no  relief.  But  were  one  to 
slay  him  who  had  murdered  a  brother,  or  wronged  a 
mother,  a  sister,  or  a  wife,  your  American  will  step  to 
his  defense  despite  a  statute — do  a  justice  and  undo  a 
law.  Your  unelastic  European  has  no  such  good  flexi- 
bilities. 

True,  it  is  all  sentiment.  Americans  are  the  most 
sentimental  of  the  tribes.  More  than  half  the  world's 
sentiment  is  American  and  north  of  the  tropics.  Senti- 
ment is  not  here  written  as  the  opposite  of  common 
sense.  Eather  is  it  employed  to  distinguish  that  last 
commodity  in  a  character,  sublimated  and  etherealized. 
Common  sense  of  the  sort  that  goes  about  of  week  days 
on  four  feet — ^and  a  most  excellent  fashion  of  sense  is 
this — is  never  showy  and  has  no  brilliantisms.  Its 
motto  is  "  Progress  with  Safety."  Risk  is  crime  in  the 
eyes  of  that  common  sense.  It  will  face  danger  and  be 
coolly  intrepid,  if  forced  by  conditions  which  listen  to 


226 

no  refusal.  But  it  will  never  rap  at  the  door  of  a  great 
peril  of  free  will;  and  that,  no  matter  the  profit  or  the 
glory  to  be  derivative  of  the  deed.  Wherefore  Senti- 
ment is  ever  the  warrior,  or  the  poet,  or  the  singer,  or 
the  lover  at  his  best.  And  your  American  replies  to 
every  one  of  these. 

And  that  is  natural  enough;  a  philosopher  of  species 
would  have  foretold  it  four  centuries  ago,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Western  settlement.  America  from  the 
first  has  been  fed  for  her  citizenry  with  the  picked 
peoples  of  Europe.  This  is  true,  and  will  be  while 
steerage  passage  to  these  shores  obtains.  The  emi- 
grant is  self-selected;  and  thereby  is  he  the  best 
selection.  Who  is  there  of  Ireland,  England,  Scotland, 
Norway,  Germany,  or  where  you  will,  among  those  poor 
and  stint  of  lore  and  fortune,  to  gather  the  courage, 
the  enterprise,  and  the  money  to  come  to  America,  and 
not  be  best  and  strongest  of  his  race?  The  clods,  the 
weak,  those  of  a  dull  dispirit,  live  and  die  in  Europe; 
the  choice  among  them  come  to  us.  Thus  for  a  quar- 
tette of  centuries  we  have  been  gaining  to  ourselves  the 
bravery,  the  imagination,  and  the  sentimentalism  of 
the  elder,  other  world.  And  conditions  here — condi- 
tions of  nature — rough  and  honest  and  manly,  have 
magnified  these  attributes  and  strengthened  them. 

American  existence  has  ever  been  a  combat.  Life 
has  been  a  Peace  with  War.  For  two  hundred  years 
our  frontier  was  a  line  of  savage  battle.  Is  it,  then, — 
for  one  instance  of  racial  trend, — marvel,  when  one  re- 
flects on  strain  and  stock  and  education,  that  your 
American  is  the  natural  soldier?  From  the  beginning, 
life  in  America  has  moved  among  dangers  whereof  your 
man  of  Europe  never  dreamed.  And  it  has  bred  a 


THE  AMERICAN  WARRIOR.  227 

hardy  optimism  of  the  physical  in  American  folk. 
Does  your  American  go  to  war?  He  goes  to  kill  some- 
body. The  thought  that  he  may  be  himself  slain  is 
second;  it  is  dim  and  not  much  dwelt  upon. 

Your  European,  criticising  what  he  might  not  equal, 
charges  this  optimism  of  your  American  about  to 
war  with  being  braggadocio,  and  is  rhetorical  over  an 
American  tendency  to  "  underestimate  a  foe."  It  is 
wiser,  and  more  to  one's  final  profit  in  blood,  to  under- 
estimate than  overestimate  a  foe.  If  one  may  not  make 
exact  anticipations,  at  least  one  should  give  one's  self 
the  benefit  of  doubts.  If  you  will  but  underestimate  an 
enemy  while  he  overestimates  you,  and  though  you 
have  no  more  than  one  about  your  standards  for  three 
with  his,  you  may  still  dismiss  alarm.  You  shall  con- 
quer with  little  effort  and  still  less  of  risk.  Courage  is 
belief  in  one's  self. 

Bacon  has  somewhat  to  write  anent  this  in  his 
Twenty-ninth  Essay.  Says  the  scribbling  Chancellor: 
"  Walled  Townes,  Stored  Arcenalles  and  Armouries, 
Goodly  Kaces  of  Horses,  Chariots  of  Warre,  Elephants, 
Ordnance,  Artillery,  and  the  like;  all  this  is  but  a 
sheepe  in  a  lion's  skin,  except  the  breed  and  disposition 
of  the  People  be  stout  and  warlike.  Nay,  number  (it 
selfe)  in  Armies  importeth  not  much,  where  the  people 
is  of  a  weake  courage;  For  as  Virgil  saith,  'It  never 
troubles  the  Wolfe  how  many  the  Sheepe  be.' ';  The 
world  had  some  American  proof  of  Bacon's  accuracy 
of  thought  when  Schley's  fleet,  being  boat  for  boat  and 
gun  for  gun  no  unfair  match  for  its  adversaries,  utterly 
destroyed — root  and  stalk  and  standing  grass — the 
Spaniards  at  Santiago,  and  in  short  order  truly  burned 
them  from  the  sea. 


228  RICHARD   CROEER. 

Sentiment  is  an  excellent  goods — nationally  it  comes 
to  be  the  backbone  of  popular  will.  And  while 
America  leads  in  sentiment,  she  will  command  in 
every  brave  thing  else.  And  if  braggadocio  as 
a  term  means  to  make  claim  when  one  cannot 
make  accomplishment,  then  America  is  not  brag- 
gart. Her  record  for  war  and  for  cold  valor,  by  any 
average  to  be  developed  for  the  past  century  and  a 
quarter,  tops  a  world's  tables.  All  the  wars  of  Na- 
poleon, and  all  that  has  since  happened  of  carnage 
kind,  to  or  in  Europe,  wouldn't  make  a  companion  piece 
for  a  picture  of  our  civil  war.  And  if  bloodshed  is  to 
be  the  test,  there  was  battle  after  battle  of  that  civil 
war  with  counts  of  killed  and  wounded  to  go  from 
twenty-five  to  sixty-six  per  cent,  of  all  engaged,  or  two 
or  three  or  four  times  the  blood-rate  of  such  fields  as 
Marengo,  Solferino,  Austerlitz,  and  Waterloo. 

Aside  from  considerations  of  an  aroused  sentimen- 
talism,  one  may  verily  believe  that  life  in  America  in- 
duces a  fraternal  and  withal  a  filial  love,  better, 
stronger,  more  vivid  than  one  finds  abroad.  No- 
where, save  in  Ireland  or  the  Highlands  of  the  Scotch, 
does  the  clan  or  family  spirit  burn  so  fiercely  as  in 
America.  Go  to  our  South,  which  holds  the  truest  and 
cleanest  strain  of  your  American  with  least  of  alien 
crossings.  There  you  will  have  instant  teaching  that 
war  on  a  member  means  war  with  the  family,  even  unto 
cousins  of  fourth  and  fifth  degrees.  The  American 
loyalty  of  blood  to  blood  has  its  fair  parallel  in  the  clan 
spirit  of  a  colony  of  hornets.  And  while  it  may  be  a 
whit  less  obvious  of  manifestation  in  Northern  regions 
than  in  those  Southern  whereof  I  have  fore-written, 
this  loyalty  of  the  family  is  abundant  and  pronounced 


JOHN  KELLY  RETURNS.  229 

among  Americans  wherever  they  are  found.  And, 
when  one  digs  to  the  bottom  with  his  twelve  native- 
born  folk  of  the  jury,  it  was  that  excusing  clan  spirit, 
and  nothing  more  besides,  that  worked  acquittance  for 
John  Scannell. 

When  Tweed  was  destroyed,  John  Kelly  was  in 
Europe.  Tammany  had  fallen  in  ruins.  While  many, 
like  Kelly  and  Croker  and  the  Scannells,  of  Tammany 
had  been  fighting  Tweed  from  the  earliest  hour,  the 
organization,  because  of  Tweed  its  head,  was  crushed 
in  his  downfall. 

It  was  Eichard  Croker  who  urged  Kelly  in  Europe  to 
return.  He  put  it  to  him  as  a  duty  to  reorganize  and 
rehabilitate  Tammany  Hall.  Kelly  came  back  and 
assumed  the  headship.  The  outlook  was  darker  than 
was  Washington's  at  Valley  Forge.  Tammany  Hall  was 
disrated,  disgraced;  to  be  of  its  muster  was  not  a  royal 
password  to  high  political  repute.  Wherefore  two- 
thirds  of  its  membership  deserted,  and  reared  from 
time  to  time  against  it  such  rival  keeps  of  Democratic 
pride  and  strength  as  the  Irving  Hall  and  the  County 
Democracies.  With  this  the  situation,  what  might 
Tammany  do?  Surely  there  must  be  works  of  re- 
pentance following  Tweed;  a  past  must  be  lived  down, 
and  a  public  granted  time  wherein  to  forgive  and  to 
forget,  ere  anything  like  majorities  at  the  polls  or 
ascendency  in  party  conclaves  could  be  hoped  for  by 
Tammany  Hall. 

Kelly  was  the  ideal  leader  for  that  sorrowful  time. 
If  Tammany  had  been  in  power,  owning  a  supremacy, 
Kelly  would  have  gone  backwards.  Kelly  would  not 
have  accommodated  himself  to  a  day  of  Tammany 
prosperity.  He  was  too  much  the  theorist,  too  much 


230  RICHARD  CROKER. 

addicted  to  principle  and  too  little  to  policy,  to  succeed 
in  a  time  of  success.  To  put  it  bluntly,  Kelly  was  too 
honest.  But  when  on  the  reefs  of  disaster — peculiarly 
the  disaster  of  disrepute — Kelly  of  all  names  was  the 
man  for  the  hour.  His  honesty,  his  courage,  his  char- 
acter above  reproach,  were  admirable  as  wrecking  aids 
to  refloat  and  repair  the  castaway  organization. 

Tammany  at  that  moment  didn't  need  a  leader  that 
could  win,  for  of  victory  there  was  no  hope.  In  the 
dry  dock  your  bark  wants  a  ship  carpenter,  not  a  cap- 
tain to  sail  her  round  the  world.  And  Tammany,  fol- 
lowing Tweed,  must  be  dry-docked.  In  the  hospital 
your  soldier,  wounded,  needs  a  surgeon,  not  a  general 
to  lead  him  to  the  charge.  And  Tammany,  bleeding  with 
the  wounds  of  Tweed,  must  go  to  the  hospital.  With 
the  case  as  painted,  "  Honest "  John  Kelly  was  that 
one  best  endowed  for  the  emergency.  He  was  a  ship 
carpenter  of  party,  rather  than  a  sailor;  a  better  sur- 
geon than  general  in  a  war  of  politics.  It  took  John 
Kelly  years  to  mend  and  make  Tammany  over  and 
strengthen  it,  with  honest  men  and  folk  of  character,  to 
a  point  where  the  public  would  re-intrust  it  with  affairs. 
But  Kelly  did  it,  and  there  is  none  on  the  pages  of 
Tammany  to  whom  more  of  honor  and  of  praise  is  due 
than  Kelly.  With  his  quality  of  honesty  and  the  great 
respect  a  public  held  for  him,  Kelly  doctored  and 
cherished  and  conserved  Tammany,  broken  and 
wounded  to  all  but  the  death  with  Tweed,  back  to 
health  and  power  and  life,  when  in  other  hands  than 
his  the  organization  would  have  perished. 

But  Kelly  had  his  sides  of  weakness.  Kelly  was  a 
soul  of  theory — an  abstractionist  more  than  a  man  of 
practice.  He  cared  all  for  a  principle  and  nothing  for 


THE  TOO-HONEST  MAN.  231 

a  policy.  One  may  be  a  philosopher,  or  a  philan- 
thropist, or  an  angel,  and  give  way  to  these  virtues. 
But  one  cannot  on  such  terms  be  a  victory-winning 
Chandos  of  politics.  Look  in  the  average  human  face, 
and  particularly,  glance  in  the  face  political.  iWhat 
does  one  see?  Hog  and  wolf  in  struggle  for  a  mas- 
tery, with  the  hog  a  bit  the  better  of  the  two.  Kelly 
was  too  fair,  too  honest,  too  loyal.  He  looked  for  these 
traits  in  equal  turn  in  others.  Thus  was  he  cheated, 
disappointed. 

And  Kelly,  thus  morally  excellent,  was  wrong. 
From  standpoints  of  ethics,  Kelly  was  admirable;  from 
those  of  triumph  at  the  polls,  he  was  buried  in  error.  To 
be  sure,  and  as  has  been  said,  in  the  day  of  Kelly,  when 
no  door  opened  to  the  least  of  chance  for  Tam- 
many to  rise,  what  were  Kelly's  defects  of  leadership 
came  to  be  no  harm.  Tammany  was  doomed,  follow- 
ing Tweed,  to  do  a  proper  penance.  It  must  be,  even 
in  its  own  party,  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer  of 
water  until  redeemed.  Caesar,  after  Tweed,  couldn't 
have  conquered  with  Tammany.  Wherefore,  as  writ- 
ten, Kelly's  infirmities  of  chiefship  came  to  no  loss; 
and,  since  all  one  might  hope  to  accomplish  was  a  trifle 
day  by  day  of  better  standing  for  Tammany,  they 
really  worked  for  good. 

Still,  whether  it  be  Kelly  or  another,  he  is  wrong 
who  in  those  sterner  matters  of  the  world,  and  which 
are  distinguished  from  what  constitutes  one's  religion 
and  one's  pleasure  by  the  name  of  business — this  in- 
cludes politics — believes  but  to  be  deceived,  trusts  only 
to  be  defrauded,  and  whose  loyalty  has  naught  save 
treason  as  its  lone  reward.  That  is  what  one  means 
when  one  tells  that  Kelly  was  too  fair,  too  honest,  too 


232  RICHARD   CROKER. 

loyal.  One  can't  afford  a  sentimental  extravagance 
more  than  one  may  a  money  one.  It  leads  even  to  the 
bankruptcy  of  Hope  itself.  To  quote  it  from  the  lips 
of  a  gray  gambler, — though  he  would  start  at  the 
term, — evilly  experienced  and  sapient  of  much  sin: 

"  You  can't  afford  to  play  a  fairer  or  more  liberal 
system  with  a  man  than  he  plays  with  you.  If  it  be  a 
game  at  cards  and  he  cheats,  your  sole  safety  lies  in  two 
courses.  You  must  cheat  him  or  quit.  Luck  in  the 
long  run  will  range  equally;  and  if  he  is  to  add  his  skill 
to  his  luck,  and  his  roguery  to  both,  while  you  are  made 
to  depend  on  the  two  first  with  no  help  from  the  latter, 
he'll  defeat  you.  To  reduce  what  I  mean  to  an  example 
of  dollars  and  cents,  the  statement  might  be  put  in 
this  way:  If  you  give  a  man  five  hundred  dollars  every 
time  he  gives  you  four  hundred,  he'll  break  you,  though 
you  carry  to  the  transaction  the  gold  of  Solomon  or 
Standard  Oil." 

John  Kelly  was  one  readily  deceived  and  as  quick  to 
trust  as  a  child.  There  is  this  difference  between  Kelly 
and  Croker.  Kelly  seemed  to  distrust,  and  trusted; 
Croker  seems  to  trust,  and  his  suspicion  is  never 
asleep. 

It  is  marvelous,  with  his  experience,  and  the  rough, 
fierce,  stormy  school  of  life  wherein  he  grew,  that  Kelly 
was  a  no-better  reader  of  political  men.  He  would  not 
and  could  not  be  brought  to  see  a  treason  by  proof  short 
of  its  dagger  in  his  heart,  and  then  it  was  too  late. 
Kelly  should  have  been  more  a  gardener  of  distrust  and 
cultivated  suspicion  as  a  tree.  Old  Louis  the  Eleventh 
was  of  an  opposite  kidney.  It  was  this  cunning  King 
who  soliloquized — "  Treason!  She  sits  at  our  feasts; 
she  sparkles  in  our  bowls;  she  wears  the  beards  of  our 


LOUIS  THE  ELEVENTH.  233 

councilors,  the  smiles  of  our  courtiers,  the  crazy  laugh 
of  our  jesters, — above  all,  she  lies  hid  under  the 
friendly  air  of  an  enemy  reconciled.  Louis  of  Orleans 
trusted  John  of  Burgundy;  he  was  murdered  in  the  Hue 
Barbette.  John  of  Burgundy  trusted  the  faction  of 
Orleans;  he  was  murdered  on  the  bridge  of  Montereau. 
I  will  trust  no  one — no  one." 

Confidence — I  state  but  general  truths — confidence 
in  politicians  is  pearls  before  swine.  One  who  abides 
afar  from  the  big  party  tempests — who  dwells  apart 
from  the  storm-centers  of  politics,  and  who,  natheless, 
is  of  a  mood  to  know  the  kind  and  sort  of  politicians 
— may  be  granted  a  helpful  hint.  In  politics  there  are 
two  classes:  the  Warwick  and  the  King,  the  manager 
and  the  candidate,  the  potter  and  the  clay.  Of  the 
second,  if  one  cannot  come  by  some  specimen  of 
one's  own  to  study,  one  may  have  much  clear  under- 
standing from  a  close  and  apprehensive  contemplation 
of  the  hog.  It  is  not  true  that  every  office-hunter  is 
porcine,  but  he  is  the  exception  who  is  not. 

Men  have  double  natures,  personal  and  political. 
The  man-political  is  never  the  man-personal.  He  who 
in  his  character  of  politician  is  the  apex  of  piggish 
voracity,  lacking  scruple  of  honesty  or  grace  of  grati- 
tude; who,  wanting  courage  and  a  spoil  to  cowardice, 
will  with  the  flush  of  danger  desert  his  cause  and  com- 
rade both,  is  oft  and  frequently,  when  taken  apart  from 
politics  and  upon  grounds  of  private,  fair  existence,  dis- 
covered liberal,  true,  and  brave  to  word  and  friend.  As 
a  politician,  however,  he  recalls  the  sty-people  and  one 
may  truly  have  his  portrait  from  the  pigs. 

Would  you  know  the  politician?  Then,  briefly,  the 
hog!  One  should  study  the  swine  in  his  pen-fold  and 


234  RICHARD   CROKER. 

bear  witness  to  him  as  he  goeth  about  and  filleth  his 
mouth  with  the  straws  of  gladness!  Your  hog  is  fero- 
cious, and  will  devour  an  unguarded  and  inadvertent 
infant,  should  such  fall  in  his  way.  He  is  craven  to 
the  point  which  flies  shrieking  from  the  least  and 
puniest  attack.  He  is  pertinacious  without  valor;  ob- 
stinate without  bravery;  cruel,  selfish,  egotistical,  with- 
out dash  of  liberal,  frank  courage.  Nor  is  there  obli- 
gation in  your  hog.  Feed  him  from  youth  to  age,  and 
though  he  may  know  he  has  these  favors  from  your 
hands — for  your  hog,  mind  you!  is  not  without  sagacity 
and  will  yell  for  food  at  the  suggestive  sight  of  you — yet 
will  he  never  bear  you  gratitude  nor  love,  for  all  you 
bring  him.  Dogs  and  horses  are  a  different  folk. 
They  have  hearts  as  well  as  memories. 

There  is  another  sublime  thing  about  your  hog.  He 
is  led  by  appetite;  never  by  reason.  His  thought  of 
right  is  his  thought  of  want,  and  what  he  desires  is 
what  to  him  is  just.  So  far  is  he  ruled  by  appetite,  to 
the  abeyance  of  reason,  that  he  is  proof  against  lessons 
of  pain.  Your  hog  may  wend  thievishly  to  your  gar- 
den thirty  times;  you  may  set  corrective  dogs  on  him 
thirty  times;  singing  with  fear  and  grief,  a  dog  swing- 
ing to  each  ear,  he  will  come  from  his  vandalage  thirty 
times.  And  then  clear  but  the  way  before  him;  call 
back  your  dogs;  and,  within  such  space  as  one  may 
count  a  score,  your  hog  will  return  to  the  garden  for 
the  thirty-first  time.  He  knows  that  it  means  trouble 
and  a  cataract  of  curs.  But  he  goes.  Disaster  is  no 
teacher  to  your  hog! 

Such  is  the  hog;  such  also,  for  rule,  is  your  office- 
seeker;  such  he  has  been,  and  such,  doubtless,  he  will 
continue  to  the  end.  And  Kelly,  fighting  with,  sur- 


THE  TAMMANY  MOSES.  235 

rounded  by,  and  herdsman  to  such  squealing  litter, 
should  have  known  his  cattle  better.  Kelly  would  trust 
and  be  deceived;  repose  a  confidence,  only  to  be 
betrayed. 

And  then  on  him  who  cheated  he  would  make  war. 
It  was  thus  that  Kelly  fought  with  Tilden,  with  Bobin- 
son,  with  one  hundred  more  of  weaker  moment.  Great 
or  small,  giant  or  dwarf,  Kelly,  once  deceived  by  him, 
was  his  implacable  foe.  And  for  that,  as  we've  beheld, 
the  Circe  of  politics  turns  all  who  seek  her,  and 
particularly  those  of  candidational  circles,  into  swine, 
Kelly  met  ever  that  ingratitude  and  selfishness  and 
coward  trustlessness  which  are  the  jewels  to  adorn 
swinishness.  And  so  Kelly  was  in  perennial  hot  water, 
and  each  day  beheld  the  swelling  of  his  feuds,  while 
peace  grew  less  and  less.  His  enemies  multiplied,  while 
his  strength  decreased.  It  told  against  Tammany  in 
the  practical  way  of  politics.  The  organization  took 
no  prizes;  nor  were  its  views  of  vogue  nor  deep  concern 
with  party. 

As  comfort  to  counter  this,  Tammany,  chastened 
with  little  power  and  morally  excellent  with  much 
weakness,  was  rapidly  regaining  that  decent,  sweet  re- 
pute which  Tweed  had  in  this  or  that  part  tarnished  or 
destroyed.  Kelly  was  the  Moses  of  Tammany  Hall. 
He  led  it  forth  of  that  Egypt  of  111  where  it  had  toiled 
in  the  venal  brickyards  of  Tweed.  He  was  with  it  in  the 
desert  of  No-hope,  and  for  fourteen  years  upheld  it  and 
kept  it  compact  against  enemies  without  as  well  as 
within  the  Democracy. 

John  Kelly  throughout  his  captaincy  had  one  ad- 
vantage— a  pleasant  one,  and  say  the  least — over 
Eichard  Croker.  Tammany  and  Kelly  were  not,  dur- 


236  RICHARD   CROKER. 

ing  the  supremacy  of  the  latter,  subject  of  any  viru- 
lence of  print.  The  papers,  truly,  were  not  in  Kelly's 
day  distinguished  for  an  amiable  content  with  either 
that  leader  or  the  organization  he  controlled.  But, 
compared  with  this  later  day  of  Croker,  they  said  little 
about  them. 

That  clemency  of  the  papers — for  so,  perhaps,  would 
the  papers  phrase  it — arose  from  a  paucity  of  Tammany 
success.  There  was  no  threat  of  Tammany  strength; 
wherefore  the  papers  did  not  feel  called  to  level  spear 
against  it.  The  story  became  changed  with  the  coming 
of  Croker.  He  won  immediate  triumph  and  secured 
control  of  the  town.  With  that  the  papers  awoke; 
they  have  been  baying  both  Croker  and  Tammany  with 
a  rabid  unanimity  since  that  time. 

This  newspaper  violence  towards  Tammany  has 
an  easy  cause.  The  local  unfashion  of  Tammany,  and 
that  deficiency  of  favor  bestowed  upon  it  by  the  very 
rich,  have  been  explained.  And  whether  one  likes  the 
thought  or  no,  there  be  none  so  quickly  supple  to  the 
moods  of  Money  as  the  papers.  For  one,  however,  I'm 
inclined  to  defend  the  press  in  its  right  to  hold  as  to 
Tammany,  or  Money,  or  whatever  may  come  to  be  of 
moment  in  its  eyes,  what  attitude  it  will.  It  is  free  to 
pick  and  choose  its  alliances,  to  meet  its  taste  or  in- 
terest as  much  as  any  private  individual. 

There  is  current  hubbub  as  to  the  "  public  duty  "  of 
the  papers.  Justice  will  discover  no  public  duty  de- 
volving on  the  press  more  than  bears  upon  other  folk. 
A  paper  is  private  property;  not  public.  Your  citizen 
buys  or  declines  it  at  his  choice.  He  reads  it  or  casts 
it  aside,  believes  it  or  denounces  it,  as  he  deems  fit.  If 
your  paper  loses  money,  no  public  reimburses  its  pub,- 


THE  NEWSPAPER  DUTY.  237 

lisher.  The  loss  is  the  latter's,  and  his  alone.  Where- 
fore he  may  open  it  to  this  relation,  or  close  it  to  an- 
other, as  freely  and  by  the  same  right  as  your  merchant 
may  his  store.  There  is  no  question  of  "  public  duty  " 
to  break  into  the  problem. 

It  might  be  said,  as  matter  pertinent,  that  the  phrase 
"  public  duty  "  is  one  commonly  overworked,  and  found 
more  than  frequently  in  the  plain  employment  of  fraud. 
Public  duty,  and  its  sonorous  synonym,  Patriotism, 
should  be  jealously  looked  to  by  the  listener  with  their 
each  invasion  of  his  ear.  "  A  fool's  a  patriot  in  every 
age,"  says  Pope,  and  the  Twickenham  hunchback,  for 
all  his  "  Dunciad,"  his  peevish  quarrels  with  Gibber, 
Addison,  Hervey,  Montagu,  and  the  rest,  was  not  al- 
ways wrong.  The  duty  one  owes  the  public  may  be 
easily  lighted  upon.  It  is  in  black  and  white,  and  stares 
one  in  the  face  by  open  word  of  law.  And  beyond  the 
law  there  lies  no  one's  duty  even  by  an  inference.  Does 
one  give  to  the  public  aught  beyond  the  true  and  sure 
outreaching  of  the  law?  it  is  so  much  largesse. 

Not  alone  does  the  law  set  wholly  forth  one's  duty 
to  the  public,  but  the  latter  in  its  rule-making  has  left 
nothing  to  the  honor,  the  honesty,  nor  the  generosity 
of  the  individual.  Before  one  is  born  the  public  be- 
gins to  threaten  one  through  printed  tons  of  laws. 
Does  one  murder?  one  is  to  be  hanged.  Does  one 
burn?  or  steal?  or  make  a  mayhem?  one  is  to  be  im- 
prisoned. Does  one  owe  and  not  pay?  writs  of  exe- 
cution are  to  run  against  one's  property,  and  now  and 
then  one's  person.  And  so  the  tale  is  told.  All  is 
compulsion;  nothing  is  permitted  to  the  good  nature 
nor  generous  integrity  of  the  citizen.  And  when  such 
is  the  situation  there  can  be  no  talk  of  "duty  to  the 


238  RICHARD   CROKER. 

public  "  beyond  that  which  the  public  has  preferred  by 
clear  assertion. 

What  belongs  to  the  individual  belongs  equally  to 
the  newspaper,  and  the  public  duty  of  the  one  begins 
and  ends  with  the  public  duty  of  the  other.  In  issues 
of  politics — where  one  party  is  ever  found  to  defend 
Money  against  the  individual,  and  the  other  to  defend 
the  individual  against  the  talons  of  the  Money-harpy, 
— it  has  been  shown  by  newspaper  experience  that  he 
who,  fending  for  the  individual,  makes  front  against 
Money,  finds  at  the  year's  end  no  count  of  profits  in  his 
till.  And  of  publishers  there  be  few  so  rich,  or  fond  of 
labors  Sisyphean,  or  weak  of  a  gold-wisdom,  as  to  walk 
daily  forth  to  certain  loss.  And  who  is  he  to  blame 
them? 

Therefore  comes  it  that  the  papers  commonly,  and  al- 
most without  exception,  are  in  the  ranks  against  Tam- 
many Hall.  And  while  one  is  not  to  condemn  them  in 
thus  carrying  their  own  eggs  to  auction  in  their  own 
way,  one  should  none  the  less  avoid  error  yawning  in 
discovering  the  motive  which  decides  them.  When 
one,  however,  considers  the  gratitude  of  Money,  and  the 
ingratitude  of  men,  one  must  be  driven  to  admit  that 
the  papers  with  the  worst  word  preserve  more  of  a 
popular  generosity  than  one  might  reasonably  expect. 

And  while  one  discusses  the  press  one  should  ever 
remember,  when  debating  what  one  may  question  as 
defect,  that  among  the  institutions  of  men  the  news- 
paper is  young.  It  is  yet  in  the  childhood  of  its  days, 
and  not  arrived  at  any  adult,  ripe  perfection.  In  this 
connection  of  newspapers  it  is  curious  to  read  Ben  Jon- 
eon's  comedy,  the  "  Staple  of  News."  The  dramatist, 
three  hundred  years  ago,  told  the  tale  of  a  newspaper 


THE  PRESS  IS  YOUNG.  239 

that,  word  for  word,  is  a  perfect  story  of  those  two 
or  three  fevered  journals  of  our  town  which,  remem- 
bering that  folk  prefer  amazement  to  instruction, 
stretch  in  admiration  of  the  marvelous,  and  get  them- 
selves before  the  public  in  perfect  Alice-in- Wonderland 
style. 

While  the  newspaper  has  been  struggling  from  the 
press  for  a  round  trio  of  centuries,  it  was  not,  save  for 
the  last  one  hundred  and  forty  years,  uncensored  and 
free  of  pen  and  types.  As  recently  as  1670  that  titled 
imbecile  Berkeley,  Governor  of  Virginia, — he  whom 
Charles  the  Second  characterized  when  he  said:  "  The 
old  fool  has  taken  more  executions  in  that  naked  coun- 
try than  I  for  the  murder  of  my  father," — wrote  in  a 
report  to  the  home-state,  "  I  thank  God  there  are  no 
free  schools  nor  printing;  and  I  hope  we  shall  not  have 
these  hundred  years;  for  learning  has  brought  diso- 
bedience and  heresy  and  sects  into  the  world,  and  print- 
ing has  divulged  them,  and  libels  against  the  best  gov- 
ernment." The  earliest  Virginia  printing  press — one 
at  Culpeper — arrived  in  1681.  It  was  slave  to  cen- 
sorism  until  within  a  decade  of  our  ^Revolution.  In 
New  England,  Harvard  College  set  up  one  of  these 
peccant  and  distrusted  engines  in  1639.  This,  too, 
was  held  in  the  leash  of  strict  censorship  until  1755. 
And  as  none  may  find  fault  with  slaves  or  captives  for 
moral  or  mental  deficiencies  caused  of  their  bonds,  so 
should  criticism  of  the  press  pause  somewhat  on  the 
fact  that  it  has  had  no  longer  than,  say,  a  century  and 
a  third,  wherein  to  expand  and  mold  itself  free  of 
argus-eyed  and  tyrannous  obstruction  of  the  law.  For 
so  brief  a  growth-space  the  press  shows  exceeding  well. 

There  is  one  error  of  management  which  our  news- 


240  RICHARD  CROKER. 

papers  are  prone  to  make.  Those  to  be  guilty  thereof 
would  find  it  profitable  and  working-water  on  their 
wheels  to  rectify  it.  That  is  the  system  of  paying 
news-writers  by  space  and  not  by  salary.  Under  the 
present  rule,  and  particularly  on  papers  which  fatten 
on  sensation,  there  is  inducement  to  exaggeration  as 
well  as  sheer,  invented  lie.  The  more  sensational  the 
story,  the  more  space  will  be  granted  it;  and  therefore 
and  thereby  the  more  money  to  the  pocket  of  the 
writer.  The  present  space  plan  is  a  bid  for  fiction 
rather  than  news;  and  as  sensational  fiction,  when 
told  of  living  men,  is  wondrous  apt  to  be  slanderous  fic- 
tion, the  ending  in  a  cloud  of  instances  is  damages 
against  the  publishers.  True,  divers  of  our  imprints — 
precoce  and  rebelly  these,  like  boys  of  ten  who  smoke 
tobacco  and  blaspheme  as  do  sinners  of  forty  years — 
will  scowl  denial  of  this  observe.  What  is  written  will 
be  none  the  less  fact  for  that.  For  the  profit  of  their 
reputations,  and  their  purses,  too,  the  papers  should 
abandon  the  "  space  system  "  in  every  corner  of  their 
comings-out. 

"  No  man,"  said  Johnson  to  Boswell — "  no  man  but 
a  blockhead  ever  wrote  except  for  money."  And  be- 
cause this  is  rooted  verity,  and  the  modern  papers  in 
taking  advantage  of  it  have  fairly  destroyed  the  litera- 
ture of  our  age,  they  have  in  that  behalf  to  answer 
serious  charges.  "  Literature,"  observed  some  wise- 
acre whose  name  eludes  the  pen,  "  literature  is  a  good 
cane,  but  a  poor  crutch."  Which  in  English  means:  it 
doesn't  pay.  As  a  common  rule,  writing,  whether  of 
truth  or  fiction,  poetry  or  prose,  never  bought  the  au- 
thor's crust  and  cup  until  the  daily  papers  came  to  be. 
One  glance  rearward  and  one  is  aware  of  this.  Spenser 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  241 

writes  his  "  Faerie  Queene,"  and  it  is  not  the  public's, 
but  Philip  Sidney's  gold  which  first  gilds  his  muse. 
Spenser  sends  in  his  verses  and  waits  humbly  in  the 
court  to  learn  the  word  of  Greatness  reading.  It  is 
a  kind  one. 

"Give  him  fifty  crowns!"  cries  Sidney  at  the  end 
of  the  first  stanza. 

That  somber,  close  official  whom  he  addresses  thinks 
Sidney  mad.  He  waits  ten  minutes.  Then  he  inter- 
rupts to  remonstrate. 

"  What!  "  shouts  Sidney,  "  did  you  not  give  him  the 
fifty  crowns?  Give  him  one  hundred  now;  I  have 
read  another  stanza." 

At  the  end  of  the  third  stanza,  Sidney  orders  another 
one  hundred  crowns  to  the  waiting  poet. 

"  And  send  him  then  away,"  commands  Sidney,  "  for 
should  he  remain,  and  I  continue  to  read,  I  will  con- 
clude bankrupt." 

Swift  is  upheld  by  Sir  William  Temple,  and  at  last 
lives  by  the  Church.  Warburton  is  another  who  would 
have  starved  without  a  pulpit.  Gay,  for  all  his 
"  Fables,"  and  the  shouting  success  of  his  "  Beggar's 
Opera,"  is  fed  by  the  Queenberrys.  Burns  turns 
gauger,  and  finds  that  bread  by  the  excise  which  his 
verses  would  not  earn.  Hogg  is  given  a  farm,  or  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  would  have  gone  wanting  flocks  and 
fleeces  to  the  close  of  his  Scotch  days.  Goldsmith 
abides  in  a  garret  and  has  sixty  pounds  by  the  "  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  " — a  rose  of  fiction  fadeless  to  this  day 
— and  is  captive  for  rent  in  the  talons  of  his  landlady 
when  Johnson  brings  it  to  his  emancipation.  Johnson, 
himself,  sponges  on  the  Thrales  for  the  better  part  of 
twenty  years;  and  at  last  quarrels  with  his  benefactress, 


242  RICHARD  CROKER. 

for  that,  becoming  a  widow,  she  marries  again  and  so 
breaks  up  his  nest.  Chatterton  starves  to  death.  Poe 
has  thirty  dollars  for  his  "  Baven,"  and  five  dollars  a 
stanza  for  his  "  Bells."  Thirty  dollars  for  the  "  Eaven  " 
might  be  deemed  a  just  reward  for  that  poem,  since 
both  verse  and  thought  were  thefts.  The  Eaven  in- 
volved was  North's  raven,  as  one  may  see  who  reads 
"  Noctes  Ambrosianse  ";  and  as  for  the  verse,  one  may 
find  both  style,  and  march,  and  now  and  then  the  very 
phrase  itself,  in  the  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship  "  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  Coleridge,  the  tun- 
bellied,  leaves  wife  and  children  for  poor  Southey  to 
support — it  was  leeks  and  lentils,  one  may  promise 
— while  he  throws  himself  upon  the  Gillmans,  who  for 
sixteen  years  are  willing  to  feed  and  lodge  a  lion  for  the 
illustrious  advertisement  of  his  roarings.  The  list 
might  be  made  long  indeed.  There  is  Hood,  dodging 
duns;  Lamb,  creeping  in  sad  and  rusty  surtout  to  his 
India  House;  our  own  Hawthorne  selling  the  Mosses  of 
his  Manse  for  those  peas  and  pulse  which  were  their 
returns.  Thoreau  lives  on  a  dime  a  week  at  Walden 
and  makes  it  the  reason  of  a  classic.  'Also  he  sells 
hardly  two  hundred  volumes  of  his  work,  which  does 
not  pay  the  one-fifth  cost  of  printing. 

But  while  to  starve  or  beg  or  sell  one's  self  for  pam- 
phlets to  the  politicians  was  the  fate  of  writers  for  the 
past  three  centuries  and  more,  still  the  system  bred  a 
literature;  which  is  more  than  goes  on  now.  Our  man- 
ners may  be  finer,  but  the  grace  has  left  our  pens.  In 
the  day  of  that  ruffed  and  pearl-sown  dragoness  Eliza- 
beth, when  folk  fed  savagely  with  their  fingers,  and 
forks  were  a  curious  weakness  of  Italy,  still  a  Sidney,  a 
Lyly,  a  Shakspere,  a  Jonson,  a  Beaumont,  and  a  Donne 


THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  243 

were  in  bloom.  And  behold  the  names  that  cluster 
about  the  morning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Dryden 
has  just  died,  and  his  funeral,  interrupted  by  drunkards 
in  its  beginning,  is  after  a  fortnight  made  consummate 
at  Westminster.  But  Dryden  leaves  Pope  and  Swift, 
and  Gay  and  Garth,  and  Steele  and  Warburton,  and 
Bolingbroke  and  Mallet,  and  Addison  and  Defoe,  and 
multitudes  behind.  Defoe,  spy,  prisoner,  wolf  of  poli- 
tics, and  what  not,  is  still  the  grand-master  of  them  all. 
His  books,  generally  on  autobiographical  lines,  are 
examples  later  for  such  as  Smollett,  and  Fielding,  and 
one  had  almost  said  Sterne;  while  his  essay-editorials 
taught  Addison  and  Steele  their  trades  and  made  them 
models  for  their  "Tatlers"  and  "Spectators."  One  even 
finds  the  paunchy  old  Defoe,  in  intervals  of  "Robin- 
son Crusoe,"  struggling  with  the  servant-girl  problem 
in  quite  a  modern  way,  and  indignantly  denouncing 
those  labor  unions  which  taught  his  kitchen  hussies 
tilt-nosed  airs  and  higher  wages  two  hundred  years  ago. 
Consider  the  year  eighteen  hundred.  Consider  the 
names  that  gather  about  the  Edinburgh  Review  and 
Constable's,  and  Blackwood's,  and  the  Quarterly  maga- 
zines. Take  the  one  hundred  years  to  follow  1750, 
and  what  names  look  down  on  one!  Johnson, 
Goldsmith,  Sheridan,  Richardson,  Burney  with  her 
lisping  daintyisms  of  "  Evelina  "  and  "  Cecilia  ";  Bos- 
well,  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  Byron,  Scott,  Blackwood, 
Hogg,  Burns,  Croker,  Jeffreys,  Wilson  (Christopher 
North),  Lockhart,  Gifford,  Southey,  Shelley,  Coleridge, 
Wordsworth,  Moore,  Lever,  Campbell,  De  Quincey, 
Hazlitt,  Lytton,  Disraeli,  Tennyson,  Dickens,  Thack- 
eray, Hunt,  Cornwall,  Jerrold,  Carlyle;  and,  of  our  own 
side,  Cooper,  Irving,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Lowell, 


244  RICHARD  CROEER. 

Thoreau,  Emerson,  Parton,  Poe,  and  him  best  of  all, 
old  Whittier.  Where  are  the  names  now  to  march  with 
those  of  one  hundred  years  ago?  Or  where  such  a 
rendezvous  as  Murray's  parlors  in  Albemarle  Street — 
where  one  might  have  found  of  an  afternoon  Scott 
meeting  Byron,  and  every  literary  notable  besides  from 
Channing  to  De  Stae'l? 

Where  is  one  to  seek  such  names  to-day?  Who  is 
there  of  our  own  times,  the  heart  of  whose  labors  is 
still  to  beat  one  hundred  years  away?  Stevenson, 
some  of  Kipling's,  and  two  or  three  of  Conan  Doyle's, 
perhaps.  And  yet  there  are  as  good  folk  writing  now 
as  ever  wrote.  The  world  is  as  rife  of  Scotts  and 
Byrons  and  others  of  as  spry  a  genius  for  phrase  or 
sense  or  sentiment  as  in  that  age  Augustan — that 
golden  age  a  century  gone  by. 

But  they  toil  on  the  daily  papers. 

They  are  offered  stipends  which  no  aforetime  author 
—with  now  and  then  an  exception — ever  had,  and  are 
paid  more  for  a  week  than  poor  Goldsmith  might  earn 
in  a  sixmonth.  The  papers  pay  best;  and  present 
cakes  and  ale  are  preferable  to  fame.  The  possible 
literature  of  the  age  is  bribed  out  of  existence,  and  all 
our  Lambs  and  our  Lyttons,  our  Grotes  and  our 
Gibbons,  our  Coleridges  and  our  Carlyles,  are  grind- 
ing at  "  editorial "  or  "  news  stories  "  the  mortal  lives 
whereof  are  not  to  exceed  the  day.  They  are  to  come 
up  as  a  flower  and  be  cut  down  with  each  day's  edition 
of  the  paper.  Yes,  forsooth!  our  dailies  are  to  answer 
for  a  dead  literature. 

One  may  argue  that  were  those  about  who  might 
equal  the  masters  and  great  captains  of  a  literary  past, 
one  would  hear  from  them;  and  that  despite  any  wet- 


GENIUS  IS  SELF-BLIND.  245 

blanketing  of  good  pay  on  the  part  of  the  daily  papers. 
The  trouble  lies  here:  your  genius  who  should  do  these 
deeds  is  never  made  aware  of  himself.  He  has  no  time; 
and  with  his  fat  week's  pay  in  his  Saturday's  purse 
from  the  papers,  he  lacks  the  reason  to  make  his  own 
discovery.  Genius  has  no  self-knowledge.  The  "  mute 
inglorious  Milton"  is  as  ignorantly  unaware  that  he 
is  an  untapped  geyser  of  poesy  as  are  his  neighbors; 
the  "  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood  "  never 
knows  that  he  is  a  quiescent  volcano  of  revolution;  both 
go  graveward  unidentified  by  others  and  unknown  of 
themselves. 

Even  when  the  fact  of  genius  has  demonstration  its 
possessor  is  the  last  to  learn  and  the  first  to  doubt  its 
existence.  Scott  could  not  believe  in  his  own  great- 
ness; and  Thackeray,  in  spite  of  "  Pendennis "  and 
"  Vanity  Fair,"  was  quietly  convinced  of  himself  as  a 
fellow  of  dull,  undiligent  weakness  to  the  last  closing 
of  his  eyes.  Ifs  the  same  in  other  trades.  Clara 
Morris,  the  genius  of  the  Emotional,  is  first  a  ballet 
girl  and  acts  only  by  accident;  while  Mrs.  Gilbert,  un- 
surpassed of  any  stage-age  as  an  "  Old  Woman,"  does 
not  speak  a  line  until  the  frosts  and  wrinkles  of  oncom- 
ing years  drive  her  from  those  jigs  and  clog-dancings 
wherewith  she  lives.  The  Scotch  seers  could  not 
foretell  their  own  fortunes,  for  they  could  never  "  see  " 
themselves.  It  is  the  same  with  genius.  Even  Dis- 
raeli's famous  threat,  when  Parliament  hooted  the 
failure  of  his  maiden  speech,  "  They  shall  yet  listen 
to  me! "  was  rather  the  retort  of  anger,  and  of  vanity 
with  a  wound,  than  the  uttered  calm  prophecy  of 
genius  weighing  itself.  The  great  dailies,  like  a  weevil, 
have  eaten  the  germ  and  destroyed  the  seed  of  our 


246  RICHARD  CROEER. 

literature;  they  have  that  charge  to  reply  to  and  be 
convicted  of,  whether  they  are  to  suffer  for  it  or  no. 
The  deliquium  of  our  literature  is  the  editorial  of  the 
daily  paper. 

And  while  we  be  about  a  literature  dead  and 
buried  in  the  dailies,  there  is  another  subject  near 
one's  soul.  As  a  taste-disgrace  of  the  times,  one  is 
made  ever  to  see — I  had  almost  said  to  read — through 
the  mediation  of  our  dailies  (though  sometimes  it's 
our  magazines),  a  procession  of  uncurried  and  clumsily 
considered  articles  and  essays  on  every  and  any  topic, 
made  by  folk  who,  wanting  a  literary  ability  beyond 
what  might  encompass  the  production  of  a  postal  card, 
have  no  better  license  for  their  poor  writing  than  that 
they  are  ex-Presidents,  or  ex-Speakers,  or  ex-Candi- 
dates, or  present  Senators,  or  some  such  urgent  com- 
modity. Why  should  he  regard  himself  equal  to  litera- 
ture, the  most  difficult  of  the  trades,  merely  for  that 
through  some  fortuitous  conjunction  of  geography, 
politics,  and  luck  he  once  was  execrable  as  a  President, 
or  disastrous  as  a  Speaker,  or  defeated  as  a  Candidate, 
or  is  presently  imperfect  as  a  nation's  Senator?  Is  any 
of  these  a  reason  why  he  should  rival  Macaulay,  or  lift 
a  leaf  from  Hume? 

And  these  difficult  ones  as  they  hideously  confect 
their  bad  English,  or  wax  pompous  with  some  thread- 
bare phrase,  should  reflect  on  the  cause  of  their  em- 
ployment, and,  in  the  name  of  what  we'll  call  their  self- 
respect,  eschew  it  and  put  it  aside.  Do  not  they  under- 
stand that  what  they  do  could  not  last  for  one  moment 
by  its  own  merit,  whether  of  thought,  substance,  or 
style?  Do  not  they  know  that  they  and  their  lucubra- 
tions are  designed  for  the  curiosity  of  the  reader,  and 


DEFEAT  THE  PEN-GOTHS.  247 

not  his  taste  nor  intelligence?  The  anxiety  that  col- 
lects them  collects  also  the  Bearded  Lady,  the  Fat 
Woman,  the  What-is-It,  and  the  Waltzing  Bear. 

And  such  being  the  event,  why  are  they  so  foolish  as 
to  confine  their  splendors  to  literature?  Why  not 
pierce  the  drama  with  their  gleaming  presence  ?  There, 
indeed,  should  be  the  true,  rich  theater  of  their  gifts' 
display.  Prize  fighters  have  had  a  stage  success;  why 
not  the  politicians?  Prithee!  put  their  scribblings 
away  and  have  them  this  better  platform!  Let  the  ex- 
President  be  "  Sir  John  Brute  ";  the  ex-Speaker,  "  Fal- 
staff ";  the  ex-Candidate,  "  Jack  Cade ";  while  our 
young  and  burning  Senator — who  has  photographs  with 
hair  pawed  over  eyes,  face  wearing  looks  of  stern 
yet  haggard  introspection,  and  as  it  were,  a  He-sibyl  in 
the  fury  of  prophecy — might  surely  find  some  character 
in  the  ample  range  between  "  Borneo  "  and  Etheridge's 
"  Sir  Fopling  Flutter "  to  which  his  banyan  genius 
might  let  down  a  root  to  its  green  and  profitable  nour- 
ishment. The  daily  papers  may  be  defended,  perhaps, 
in  their  destruction  of  a  literature  on  the  plea  that 
they  need  the  literati  in  their  destinies.  But  there  can 
be  no  excuse  for  an  employment  of  these  ex-Some- 
things, who,  with  no  reason  for  scribbling  save  an  un- 
fortunate notoriety,  would  be  as  well  and,  probably,  as 
congenially  engaged  were  they  perched  on  drygoods 
boxes  in  some  deserving  side-show  and  sold  their  photo- 
graphs. At  least  this  last  would  protect  literature 
from  the  pen-forays  of  these  barbarians,  which  would 
be  completely  a  solution  of  present  fears  in  that  behalf. 

Thoreau  had  his  views  on  newspapers,  and  writes  in 
"  Walden  "  thus  peevishly:  "And  I  am  sure  that  I  never 
read  any  memorable  news  in  a  newspaper.  If  we  read 


248  RICHARD   CHOKER, 

of  one  man  robbed,  or  murdered,  or  killed  by  accident, 
or  one  house  burned,  or  one  vessel  wrecked,  or  one 
steamboat  blown  up,  or  one  cow  run  over  on  the  rail- 
road, or  one  mad  dog  killed,  or  one  lot  of  grasshoppers 
in  the  winter — we  never  need  read  of  another.  One  is 
enough.  If  you  are  acquainted  with  the  principle, 
what  do  you  care  for  a  million  instances  and  applica- 
tions? To  a  philosopher  all  'news/  as  it  is  called,  is 
gossip;  and  they  who  edit  and  read  it  are  old  women 
over  their  tea.  Yet  not  a  few  are  greedy  after  this 
gossip.  There  was  a  rush  I  hear  the  other  day  to  learn 
the  foreign  news  by  the  last  arrival,  .  .  .  news  which  I 
seriously  think  a  ready  wit  might  write  a  twelvemonth 
or  twelve  years  beforehand.  As  for  Spain,  for  instance, 
if  you  know  how  to  throw  in  Don  Carlos,  and  the  In- 
fanta, and  Don  Pedro,  and  Seville,  and  Granada  at  the 
right  time,  and  in  the  right  proportions,  and  serve  up 
a  bullfight  when  other  entertainments  fail,  it  will  be 
true  to  the  letter.  .  .  And  as  for  England,  the  last  sig- 
nificant scrap  of  news  from  that  quarter  was  the  revolu- 
tion of  1649." 

While  one  is  willing  to  stand  between  the  press  and 
the  critics  on  an  indictment  of  sensationalism,  or  for 
an  aid  and  comfort  rendered  Money  on  its  march  of 
commercial  aggression,  there  is  that  other  charge  of 
snobbery  for  which,  in  the  case  of  more  than  one  paper, 
it  well  deserves  the  whipping-post,  the  pillory,  and  the 
stocks.  It  is  one  thing  to  defend  Money,  for  it  has 
its  rights  and  should  have  its  day  like  any  other  dog. 
But  to  fulsomiely  flatter  Money  and  bow  adoringly  be- 
fore it  is  decidedly  another  goods.  And  there's  a 
present  as  well  as  a  future  serious  harm  to  lurk  in  such 
slavish  incense.  Money  has  a  weak  mind;  its  head  may 


PRESS  SNOBBERY.  249 

be  turned;  and  parasitism  is  as  much  a  deliriant  as 
opium. 

Yet  sundry  of  our  dailies  keep  it  up — one  wonders 
why.  Every  rich  man  becomes  and  is  the  patron  before 
whom  these  Jenkinses  of  print  forever  bow  and  bend. 
It  is  these  snobs  of  the  press  who  are  rapidly  construct- 
ing of  the  word  "  millionaire  "  a  title  of  American  no- 
bility. In  their  eyes  and  columns,  a  man  of  wealth  is 
all-important  in  his  citizenship.  A  poor  man  may  be 
wise  and  brave  and  true;  he  may  live  respected  and  die 
defending  the  flag.  Yet  he  will  gain  neither  the  space, 
position,  nor  illustration,  in  these  dailies  that  went  re- 
cently to  one  of  our  junior  millionaires  for  a  no-greater 
public  service  than  running  over  a  bicycle. 

It  is  all  snobbery.  And  it  is  pernicious,  and  deplor- 
ably un-American.  These  imprints  will  pat  poverty  on 
the  back;  descant  feelingly  on  the  heroism  of  labor. 
They  will  call  Money  every  hard  and  churlish  name. 
They  invent  the  epithets  "  masses  "  and  "  classes,"  and 
assume  to  champion  the  first  against  the  last.  Despite 
all  this,  however,  they  omit  not  to  sedulously  fawn 
about  the  knees  of  Wealth.  They  find  their  fellow 
in  the  old-time  parasite  of  Greece;  discover  their  voca- 
tion in  abject  adulation  of  the  very  rich.  Anybody, 
everybody,  who  has  attained  the  mark  of  the  million,  is 
the  subject  of  never-sleeping  solicitude  to  these  jour- 
nals. He  may  not  so  much  as  sneeze  but  "  artists  "  and 
"reporters,"  not  to  mention  an  occasional  "commis- 
sioner," are  dispatched  to  picture  and  report  the  sacred 
ceremony.  It's  this  that  promotes  Money,  disrates 
Manhood,  and  makes  it  possible  for  Wealth  by  merest 
political  interference  to  set  a  goose  to  guarding  Rome 
and  give  a  toga  to  a  fool. 


250  RICHARD   CROKER. 

John  Kelly  died  June  1, 1886,  at  the  age  of  sixty-five. 
And  there  has  been  and  will  be  none  to  better  deserve 
the  hearts  of  Tammany  Hall.  Were  he  to  want  an 
epitaph,  it  might  be  graven:  His  Faults  were  the  Faults 
of  Honesty:  he  was  more  an  American  than  a  Politi- 
cian, more  a  Man  than  an  American. 


ARTHUR  PUE  GORMAN. 


XV. 

AN    EX-PRESIDENT. 

This  is  a  lecturer  BO  skilled  in  policy 
That  (no  disparagement  to  Satan's  cunning) 
He  well  might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil, 
And  teach  the  old  seducer  new  temptations. 

— Old  Play. 

"  WHY  doesn't  Kichard  Croker  hold  office?  "  While 
one  may  not  answer  as  to  the  reason,  one  may  reply 
decisively  as  to  the  fact.  The  future  will  never  find 
him  an  officeholder.  Nor  may  one  blame  him.  There  is 
little  honor  and  still  less  of  ease  in  offieeholding.  And 
as  for  the  profit?  why,  one  might  better  hold  a  baby  or 
a  horse.  Most  folk  may  reap  more  by  merely  holding 
their  tongues;  albeit,  there  be  a-many  of  us  to  never 
grow  rich  that  gait.  Croker  will  never  again  hold  office. 

It  is  his  word  for  it.  Croker  touched  on  the  busi- 
ness tersely,  yet  with  a  clear  vigor,  one  day  at  dinner. 
He  was  carving  a  fowl  at  the  time;  ancl  with  a  blade  of 
blunt  unservice  made  but  wretched  work  of  it.  It  was 
conflict  rather  than  carving,  and  reminded  one  of  noth- 
ing so  much  as  St.  George  and  the  Dragon.  In  the 
conversation  of  the  four  or  five  at  table,  the  suggestion 
was  made  that,  upon  certain  possible  contingencies, 
Croker  should  be  chosen  a  Senator  of  the  United  States. 
Croker  looked  keenly  up. 

"  While  I  live  I'll  never  hold  another  office,"  he  said; 
"  and  so  you  may  tell  any  who  is  interested,  however 
and  whenever  and  wherever  the  question  comes  up." 

851 


252  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Eichard  Croker  has  filled  office.  Which  possibly 
may  be  that  weaning  reason  why  he  has  no  now  ambi- 
tions of  that  kind.  Croker  was  an  alderman  in  1870; 
and  being  inimical  to  Tweed  was  legislated  by  that  un- 
worthy into  private  life.  He  was  afterwards  marshal 
to  collect  arrears  of  taxes,  and  put  previous  records  to 
the  blush  by  gathering  in  a  half -million  of  dollars  de- 
linquent in  four  months.  For  this  good  work  Croker 
was  publicly  complimented  by  Havemeyer,  then  mayor. 
In  1873  Croker  was  elected  coroner,  an  office  of  moment 
and  importance.  Later  he  was  again  chosen  alderman 
and  resigned  to  become  fire  commissioner.  Croker's 
last  office  was  in  1879,  when  he  took  oath  as  chamber- 
lain of  the  city,  a  place  of  highest  repute  and  dignity. 
Already,  however,  was  Croker  growing  to  his  present 
temper  of  non-officeholding,  and  he  resigned  his  trust 
as  chamberlain  within  the  year.  This  was  his  last 
place. 

Following  Kelly's  death,  Richard  Croker  was  called 
to  be  the  chief  of  Tammany  Hall.  He  did  not  seek 
this  elevation,  and  strove  against  it.  John  Scannell  it 
was  who,  in  the  face  of  Croker's  protest,  made  a  cam- 
paign among  the  "  leaders  "  and  wrought  out  the  se- 
lection of  Croker. 

Before  that  day  of  Kelly's  demise,  a  dozen  prior 
years  indeed,  a  blow,  shrewdly  villainous,  was  aimed  at 
Richard  Croker.  It  was  in  1874.  Croker,  thirty-one 
years  of  age,  was  serving  his  term  as  coroner.  His 
office,  however,  is  aside  from  the  mark  and  has  no  part 
of  the  story. 

It  was  Croker  most  of  all  who  had  brought  Kelly  to 
the  leadership  of  Tammany.  And  of  those  about  him, 
Kelly  relied  weightily  on  Croker  and  trusted  to  him. 


KELLY'S  BEST  MAN.  253 

Croker  was  cool  and  wise  and  of  a  good  craft  in  council; 
thorough  and  clean  as  an  executive.  Kelly  could  have 
found  none  better  to  be  his  supplement.  Your  natural 
soldier  has  the  same  power  to  obey  as  to  command;  and 
Croker  was  your  natural  soldier.  Thus  it  came — dis- 
cussion ended  and  consideration  of  conditions  closed, — 
that,  when  commands  were  issued,  Croker  took  the 
field,  swift,  exact,  and  utter  in  their  carrying  out. 
For  which  virtues  of  execution  Croker  stood  highest  in 
Kelly's  thoughts,  as  he  would  in  those  of  Napoleon,  had 
he  been  with  him  in  his  day.  Croker,  for  his  proper 
gifts  of  courage,  silence,  and  a  quick,  military  decisive- 
ness, was  the  war-marshal  of  Tammany  Hall.  While 
Kelly  ruled  in  council,  Croker  commanded  in  the  field; 
it  was  as  if,  Tammany  being  the  country,  the  one  was 
Lincoln  while  the  last  was  Grant. 

It  was  on  election  day,  the  3d  of  November,  1874; 
Hewitt  was  the  Tammany-Kelly  candidate  for  Con- 
gress. Against  Hewitt  ran  one  O'Brien,  the  idol  of  the 
mob,  and  more  remembered  for  violence  and  lack  of 
conscience  than  for  virtues  useful  to  the  state.  The 
O'Brien  element  were  by  no  means  an  untested  quan- 
tity in  the  practical  labor  of  elections.  They  were 
famous  as  repeaters  and  plug-uglies;  and  if  the  ballot 
offended  them,  capable  of  throwing  the  boxes  into  the 
river;  and  if  the  judges  offended  them,  of  making  those 
dignitaries  follow  the  boxes  before  jettisoned.  'Alto- 
gether the  O'Brien  contingent  were  a  highly  lively 
tribe,  whose  overpowering  passion  for  victory  oft 
carried  them  to  extremes. 

Thus  it  befell,  during  the  Congressional  contest  of 
Hewitt  against  O'Brien,  that  the  latter's  adherents, 
moved  and  instigated  of  Satan  and  to  that  King- 


254  RICHARD   CROKER. 

demon's  infinite  relish  and  delight,  went  from  poll 
to  poll  like  unto  roaring  lions,  assaulting,  threatening, 
and  terrorizing  the  Hewitt  workers  and  driving  that 
candidate's  votes  into  the  wilderness.  This  must  be 
recovered;  or  right  would  be  defeated  and  crime 
succeed. 

Richard  Croker  was  asked  by^  Kelly  to  take  charge  of 
the  situation.  Croker  at  once  proceeded  to  the 
scenes  of  violence,  and  at  a  polling  place  where  wrong 
was  rampant  and  right  was  cowed,  came  upon  the 
dread  O'Brien  himself.  This  personage  was  heavily 
accompanied  of  his  warriors,  some  glisk  of  whom  may 
be  gained  from  the  fact  that  the  least  desperately  puis- 
sant among  them  was  known  as  "  Strong- Arm  Mike." 
Croker  had  with  him  a  trio  of  quiet,  yet  resolute,  fol- 
lowers; he  with  these  was  confronted  by  O'Brien  and 
a  furious  score. 

Brief  was  the  parley.  Croker  never  yet  counted  an 
enemy  until  after  the  fray.  He  was  ready  and  fear- 
less. "  You  must  send  these  thieves  out  of  the  dis- 
trict," observed  Croker  to  O'Brien;  "they  don't  live 
here  and  have  no  right  here.  These  scoundrels  must 
get  out."  The  "  thieves  "  and  "  scoundrels  "  adverted 
to  included  and  were  of  the  worthy  class  with  Strong- 
Arm  Mike.  Since  the  retreat  thus  ordered  of  the 
thieves  there  present  meant,  if  consented  to,  the 
election  of  Hewitt  and  defeat  of  O'Brien,  that 
latter  volatile  person  made  no  more  ado,  but  struck 
at  Croker.  This  was  bad  judgment  on  O'Brien's 
reckless  part;  a  fact  that  broke  over  him  like 
a  tempest  when  Croker  instantly  retorted  in  muscular 
kind.  There  was  an  altercation  wherein  O'Brien  lost 
blood  and  reputation  with  his  followers,  who  had  held 


THE  KILLING  OF  MCRENNA.  255 

him  to  be  invincible  and  found  that  he  was  not.  Dur- 
ing the  melee,  which  waxed  general,  pistols  were  pro- 
duced and  a  dozen  shots  were  fired.  None,  however, 
by  Eichard  Croker,  who  never  owned  nor  carried 
weapon. 

At  the  close  of  hostilities,  which  last  was  brought 
about  by  police,  who  interfered  when  O'Brien  was  being 
worsted,  it  was  discovered  that  one  McKenna  lay  on 
the  ground,  bullet-slain.  In  a  trice  it  occurred  to  those 
most  criminal  of  the  O'Brien  faction — all  late  minions 
of  the  Tweed  King — that  here  was  an  opening  to  be 
both  revenged  and  rid  of  their  arch-enemy  Eichard 
Croker  at  one  swoop.  They  would  charge  him  with  the 
killing  of  McKenna;  a  little  diligent  perjury  would  do 
the  rest. 

Thus  was  it  determined.  And  because  O'Brien  was 
not  without  a  malignant  potency  in  certain  places, 
which  for  a  decency  of  justice  should  have  been  beyond 
his  touch  of  thumb,  Eichard  Croker  was  indicted  and 
brought  to  trial  for  the  McKenna  taking-off.  It  could 
not  be  accounted  a  vast  peril.  Three  years  earlier  in  a 
black  heyday  of  Tweed  one  might  have  told  another 
story.  As  it  was,  the  truth  shone  through  the 
rickety  perjury  of  the  prosecution  like  sunlight  through 
a  lattice;  and  while  the  jury  disagreed,  for  two 
there  were  of  the  panel  who,  being  part  of  the  con- 
spiracy, stood  with  bad  stubbornness  for  conviction, 
the  indictment  was  instantly  dismissed  on  motion  of 
the  State's  attorney  himself.  It  made  no  bottomless 
difference.  The  decision  arrived  at  by  the  public  in  the 
beginning  was  that  Eichard  Croker  was  innocent,  and 
neither  the  trial  nor  its  termination  served  other  pur- 
pose than  the  confirmation  of  this  view. 


256  RICHARD  GROWER. 

There  was  one  lurid,  distrustful  element  of  this  trial 
which  wins  comment  to  this  day.  That  was  the  position 
of  the  judge  who  presided,  and  his  charge  to  the  jury. 
One  will  hear  from  time  to  time,  as  echoes  of  litigation 
grinding  reach  one's  ears,  of  charges  "  favorable  "  and 
charges  "  unfavorable "  to  defendants.  These  ad- 
jectives, descriptive  of  an  ermined  attitude,  are  of  am- 
biguity and  may  mean  much  or  little,  as  the  case  may 
be.  On  this  Croker  occasion  the  charge  was  "  unfavor- 
able," and  with  such  a  fervor  of  unfavor,  too,  that  it 
staggered  all  who  listened,  and  was  like  nothing  so 
much  as  the  bench-efforts  of  a  Scroggs  or  a  Jeffreys  in 
his  most  untrammeled  day.  But  truth  is  mighty;  right 
prevailed  and  wrong  fell  back,  and  Croker  came  forth 
from  the  furnace  of  that  trial  without  the  smell  of  fire 
about  his  garments. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  he  who  presided  with  such 
bias  at  this  trial  of  Croker  is  still  judge;  holding 
now  by  grace  and  selection  of  Croker  himself.  And 
this  goes  in  demonstration  of  Croker's  profound 
self-control,  and  displays  how  completely  he  declines 
the  voice  of  private  feeling  when  passing  on  questions 
of  party  expediency  or  policy.  Years  later — for  these 
jurists  have  terms  of  fourteen  years — the  lease  of  office 
of  this  judge  ran  out.  Croker,  free  and  powerful,  was 
the  Attila  of  party — the  leader  of  a  victorious  Tam- 
many. The  judge  in  danger  came  not  near  Croker;  he 
craved  no  favors  and  looked  only  for  defeat.  Nor  did 
Croker  seek  the  judge;  dumb  as  the  other,  he  also  made 
no  sign.  None  of  those  near  Croker's  elbow  in  the  dis- 
cussions of  Tammany  said  aught  of  a  renomination  for 
this  judge,  whose  term  was  waning  to  a  close.  Folk 
political  were  aware  of  Croker's  little  reason  for  pre- 


ABEAM  S.  HEWITT.  257 

ferring  the  retention  of  this  judge,  and  looked  for  the 
latter's  letting  out.  The  time  arrived;  and  when  Croker 
turned  in  the  list  to  his  executive  committee,  embody- 
ing his  thoughts  of  a  ticket,  it  had  the  name  of  that 
judge  at  the  top.  It  was  wisdom  and  the  heart  of  policy. 
And  it  was  peculiarly  the  earmark  of  that  cautious 
sagacity  without  which  Croker's  autocracy  of  sixteen 
years  would  have  been  impossible.  Your  common 
leader  would  have  smote  that  jurist  hip  and  thigh, 
and  made  a  boast  thereof,  and  a  feast  upon  it.  But 
Croker  is  the  man  uncommon.  Silent,  wordless,  want- 
ing hint  or  suggestion,  Croker  renamed  and  re-elected 
him. 

Hewitt  was  sent  to  Congress  in  that  struggle,  and 
O'Brien  was  given  to  defeat.  One  of  the  papers,  writ- 
ing of  a  meeting  following  the  election,  said:  "  Hewitt 
was  the  next  speaker.  He  spoke  in  strong  terms  of  the 
recent  election  outrage.  He  said  that  the  man 
O'Brien,  who  had  nominated  himself  as  his  opponent, 
had  boasted  that  he  would  be  returned  by  a  majority  of 
ten  thousand,  and  he  felt  assured  that  if  murder 
would  have  served  his  opponent's  purpose  it  would 
have  been  done.  It  was  the  last  thought  of  his 
mind  that  such  a  contest  would  have  been  forced 
upon  him.  Hewitt,  having  stated  that  he  had  given 
word  to  the  police  of  an  apprehended  attack  upon 
his  political  supporters,  and  that  the  police  failed  to 
appear  and  discharge  their  duty,  said,  much  as  he 
regretted  the  unhappy  occurrence  that  took  place  on 
election  day,  he  believed  that  if  it  had  not  occurred, 
O'Brien  would  have  been  returned  in  place  of  himself, 
and  there  would  have  been  thus  returned  to  the 
National  Council  the  representative  of  the  mob.  He, 


258  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Hewitt,  took  some  pains  to  get  at  the  facts  in  this  case, 
and  from  disinterested  witnesses  he  was  able  to  say 
that  it  would  be  shown  [the  trial  was  not  yet  had]  that 
the  attack  on  that  occasion  was  made  by  O'Brien  and 
not  by  Coroner  Croker.  Coroner  Croker  had  no  pistol 
and  never  drew  one.  Hewitt  said  that  he  knew  Croker 
drew  no  pistol,  and  that  when  pistols  were  drawn  they 
were  drawn  by  the  opposite  side.  He  did  not  under- 
estimate the  difficulty  of  the  contest.  He  went  into  no 
grog  shops  and  treated  no  crowds  of  hired  ruffians.  He 
used  no  money  to  buy  votes,  but  what  he  did  was  to 
protect  the  honest  voter  in  his  right  to  deposit  his  bal- 
lot, whether  it  was  for  or  against  him.  Croker  was  not 
an  aggressor.  What  he  did  was  done  with  a  view  to 
protect  the  ballot  box.  Hewitt  said  that  the  evidence 
on  this  point  was  overwhelming,  and  he  believed  that, 
but  for  the  firmness  and  courage  of  Eichard  Croker, 
O'Brien  would  have  got  the  certificate  of  election." 

Another  memorable  event  of  the  days  of  Kelly,  and 
one  wherein  Eichard  Croker  had  a  prime  suggesting 
portion,  was  the  discovery  and  elevation  of  Grover 
Cleveland,  first  to  be  Governor  and  next  to  be  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States.  Cleveland  had  made  some 
noise  as  the  "  veto  mayor  "  of  Buffalo.  Croker  spoke 
of  Cleveland — while  in  preliminary  and  privy  council 
— to  Kelly  as  a  possible  good  candidate  for  the  post  of 
Governor.  The  thought  engaged  Kelly;  and  in  the 
end,  and  by  the  convention  votes  of  Tammany  Hall, 
Cleveland  was  named. 

It  is  in  my  mind  to  give  here  some  charcoal  sketch- 
ings of  this  heavy  late  President.  My  knowledge  of 
him  is  sure  and  to  the  color.  And  Cleveland's  portrait 
is  properly  parcel  of  Croker's  career,  for,  more  than  any 


GROVER  CLEVELAND.  259 

other,  it  was  Croker's  hand  to  plant  the  stalk  of  him. 
Had  there  been  no  Croker  there  would  have  been  no 
Cleveland,  in  a  national  sense  at  least;  and  while  that 
fact  may  not  be  looked  on  as  to  the  Croker  credit,  its 
relation  is  none  the  less  in  line.  This  is  the  life  story, 
in  compress,  of  Grover  Cleveland. 

There  has  been  ever  error  in  recounts  of  Cleveland. 
They  were  either  weak  with  the  flattery  of  some  ful- 
some place-yearning  Mugwump,  or  wrong  as  the  assault 
of  a  foe  who  attacked  by  any  method.  What  follows 
will  be  the  thrice-pruned  truth.  It  will  be  born,  too, 
in  that  spirit  of  white  indifference  which  should 
characterize  precise  history. 

It  is  pity  that  the  whole  American  public  can't  go  to 
Washington  and  remain  three  months  in  twelve.  It 
would  be  worth  the  nation's  while  to  give  every  man  a 
point-blank  look  at  Government,  and  the  watchmen  on 
the  walls  thereof.  One  may  take  the  commonest  clod; 
let  it  be  vicious  as  vile;  low  in  its  instincts,  black  in  its 
past.  And  does  one  elect  it,  for  example,  to  a  Presi- 
dency, its  apotheosis  begins.  Its  halo  comes  with  its 
inauguration  oath;  and  ever  thereafter  that  clod  to  the 
general  eye  will  seem,  not  the  clay  it  is,  but  the  precious 
gold  it  ought  to  be.  For  all  of  which  weakness  of  pub- 
lic sight  and  judgment,  a  weakness  to  grow  with  popu- 
lation, it  is  profitable  to  sit  coldly  down  and  read 
about  one's  rulers. 

Cleveland,  a  Jerseyman,  was  born  in  March,  1837. 
He  was  forty-eight  when  first  he  came  as  President  to 
Washington.  Cleveland  represented  in  his  successes 
the  victory  of  accident.  He  had  what  groping  folk 
feeling  for  answer  in  the  dark,  call  "luck."  Like 
Napoleon,  Cleveland  named  it  "  destiny."  Let  that  go. 


260  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

It's  not  of  moment  what  one  calls  it,  so  that  it  be 
understood. 

Cleveland  as  a  youth  was  taught  little  of  book  sort. 
Coming  from  school  he  could  not  name  you  twenty  au- 
thors; had  not  read  a  dozen  books;  didn't  know  Eobin 
Hood  from  Thomas,  poet  of  that  style,  and  wotted 
little  of  polite  letters.  At  seventeen,  after  performing 
briefly,  his  biographer  says,  as  "  teacher  "  in  a  blind 
asylum — and  he  might  have  taught  the  blind — Cleve- 
land went  to  Buffalo.  This  was  in  1855.  By  the  good- 
ness of  an  uncle  he  lived  and  studied  law.  He  was  ad- 
mitted in  1859.  Later  he  held  a  slight  office  for  three 
years,  and  was  defeated  in  his  strivings  to  reach 
another. 

By  one  sign  one  may  know  that  Cleveland  was  not  a 
learned  sage  of  law.  He  became  sheriff  of  Erie  County 
in  1879.  No  lawyer  of  high  blood  will  consent  to  this 
place.  There  are  other  and  more  professional  channels 
of  ambition.  He  will  be  the  public's  attorney,  or 
judge;  but,  mark  you!  never  sheriff.  That  office,  with 
its  hangman's  work,  its  processes,  its  evictions,  its 
levies  and  distraints,  goes  to  another  class. 

And  yet  even  this  law  ignorance  shows  its  fortunate 
side  in  the  climbing  case  of  Cleveland.  He  became 
sheriff  and  kept  the  jail;  and  next,  having,  one  may 
assume,  made  an  excellent  record,  losing  none  of  his 
keys  nor  his  captives,  he  is  seized  on,  made  Mayor,  and 
instead  of  the  county  cells  keeps  the  City  Hall. 

It  was  John  Kelly  with  Croker  who  made  Cleveland 
Governor.  It  was  a  war:  Tammany  against  anti-Tam- 
many; city  against  country.  "  Let's  take  this  fellow 
from  Buffalo,  who's  been  Mayor  there,"  said  Kelly. 
"  Let's  nominate  him  for  Governor.  He  doesn't  be- 


TAMMANY  NAMES  CLEVELAND.  261 

long  to  either  side."  The  Convention  did  as  Kelly 
said;  and  then  Conkling  fought  Garfield,  and  almost  the 
Kepublican  party  stayed  at  home  on  election  day,  and 
Cleveland  won  over  Folger  by  a  shadow  short  of  two 
hundred  thousand. 

Following  Cleveland's  Governorship,  he  was  selected 
for  the  Presidential  race.  Gorman  as  manager  elected 
him,  landing  him  winner  by  a  throat-latch,  and  was 
barred  from  the  White  House  for  it  within  a  month 
after  the  inauguration. 

Thus  one  beholds  the  lifting  up  of  Cleveland  from 
sheriff  to  President.  This  story  is  much  quoted  by 
some  as  proof  of  the  sterling  worth  of  America's  free 
institutions.  With  the  thoughtful,  however,  its  mid- 
day value  in  that  behalf  is  denied. 

Jones  of  Nevada  once  told  that  of  all  whom  he  had 
met  in  high  places  Cleveland  was  mentally  the  most 
abundantly  dark.  When  he  came  to  be  President,  he 
had  not  read  the  Constitution  of  the  country.  Still, 
one  is  at  liberty  to  select  one's  authors  as  well  as  one's 
literature;  we  may  not,  perhaps,  complain. 

There  were  two  matters  appurtenant  of  the  White 
House  of  which  Cleveland  had  heard;  two  powers  to 
which  he  willingly  turned.  These  were  the  veto  and 
the  patronage.  Within  a  year  from  March  4,  1885,  his 
first  inaugural,  Cleveland  vetoed  more  measures  than 
had  all  the  Presidents  who  preceded  him.  What  a  study 
in  egotism  is  this!  What  a  misconception  of  duty! 
Washington,  the  scholarly  Jefferson,  men  who  rocked 
the  cradle  of  the  Constitution;  the  virile  Jackson, 
whom  neither  man  nor  god  might  bind;  Lincoln,  with 
all  his  care;  and  the  silent  Grant,  who  lived  in  war's 
red  front,  while  Cleveland's  haunt  was  safety — the  veto 


262  RICSARD  CROKER. 

example  of  these  was  no  guide  to  him.  They  fought 
and  founded,  and  fought  again  and  re-founded  the  Gov- 
ernment. They  alternated  pen  with  sword,  gave  wis- 
dom and  valor  both  to  the  upbringing  and  defense  of 
the  country.  Cleveland  had  done  nothing.  Yet  in  one 
year,  playing  with  this  tremendous  power  of  veto  like 
a  child  with  a  toy,  he  dealt  death  to  more  measures 
than  had  all  those  heroes  in  the  hundred  years  which 
went  before. 

To  understand  Cleveland  as  a  President — for  he 
changed  mightily,  and  those  who  knew  him  a  dozen 
years  before  wouldn't  have  known  him  then — one  must 
remember  the  influence  of  money-getting  upon  him. 
He  was  poor,  without  a  dollar,  when  first  he  came 
White-House  seeking.  When  he  left  in  1897  he  was 
rich  to  the  point  of  millions.  And  Money  had  re-shaped, 
and  molded,  and  added  to,  and  taken  from,  and  made 
him  anew.  Cleveland  had  not  made  a  dollar;  natu- 
rally, he  didn't  know  how.  It  was  like  calling  on  a 
horse  to  make  a  dollar.  He  had  grown  to  forty-eight, 
and  came  to  Washington  without  so  much  silver  as 
might  serve  to  keep  the  fiends  from  dancing  in  his 
pocket.  But  he  met  wise  men;  men  who  saw  in  him 
those  latent  money-wonders  which  lie  dormant  in  every 
President,  and  who  were  willing  to  work  them  out  to 
his  and  their  advantage.  Probably  that  tribe  saw  afore- 
time the  money-chances  which  slept  in  other  Presidents. 
But  as  one  after  another,  Jefferson,  Madison,  Monroe, 
Jackson,  down  to  one's  own  time,  they  left  the 
White  House,  some  abject  paupers,  all  leaner  than  they 
came,  it  would  seem  that  those  others  lacked  that  thrift 
to  permit  their  development.  It  was  not  until  Cleve- 
land's day  that  the  White  House  became  lucrative;  and 


MONET  WAS  KING.  263 

he  retired — he  who  was  dollarless  at  forty-eight — with 
the  record  of  being  the  first  President  who  went  forth 
richer  than  he  arrived.  Coming  poor,  he  departed  with 
the  wealth  of  dreams.  And  to  the  quiet  of  his  con- 
science, it  is  to  be  doubted  if  he  could  have  told  one 
word  of  how  that  glittering,  pleasing  marvel  came 
about.  He  had  millions;  and  he  didn't  know  how. 
Yet  the  riddle  was  not  difficult.  As  President  he 
held  that  lamp  of  magic  which  one  had  only  to  rub,  to 
make  all  about  him  rich. 

It  skills  nothing  to  go  over  the  long  and  tangled 
trail  of  Cleveland's  money-getting,  with  all  its  windings, 
twists,  and  curious  turns.  And  whether,  in  the  heap- 
ing and  sweeping  together,  it  came  from  Eed  Top  or 
Gray  Gables;  from  bonds  or  stock  deals  or  traction  com- 
panies; or  woodpulp  patents;  or  Nova  Scotia  coal;  or 
Cuban  iron;  or  whatever  its  thousand  sources,  it  was 
an  enormous  sum  for  one  to  have  from  a  capital  of 
money-ignorance  and  nothing  in  twelve  years;  and  it 
failed  not  to  impress  Cleveland  and  affect  him.  In  his 
last  reign  his  great  reverence  was  for  money;  his  respect 
was  kept  for  those  who  possessed  it.  Poverty  was 
synonymous  with  ignorance;  wisdom  went  only  with 
wealth.  In  his  day  one  might  come  afoot  to  Washing- 
ton; and  if  one  did,  one  couldn't  see  him.  Come  in  a 
private  car,  and  one  could.  One's  honesty,  one's  worth, 
the  goodness  of  one's  purpose,  or  the  justice  of  one's 
cause  would  not  avail!  People  were  nothing  to  Cleve- 
land; property  was  everything.  He  would  turn  from  a 
man  in  a  moment.  Spill  down  a  million  of  gold,  and 
the  sight  would  suspend  and  hold  him  spellbound — cast 
him  into  a  trance  of  riches. 

Cleveland  was  not  book-learned;  neither  had  he  been 


264  RICHARD   CROKER. 

taught  of  travel.  He  knew  nothing  west  of  Buffalo, 
nor  south  of  the  North  Pennsylvania  line.  He  had, 
most  of  all,  no  imagination.  He  had  heard  of  a  West, 
he  had  heard  of  a  South;  but  the  terms  told  no  tales  to 
Cleveland.  What  the  West  and  South  were;  their 
wants,  their  rights,  their  aims,  their  strengths,  loomed 
but  vaguely,  lost  in  that  mighty  fog  of  no  imagination 
and  what  he  didn't  know.  Cleveland's  was  a  small 
mind,  but  hard  as  jadestone  and  retentive.  After  its 
manner  it  had  a  narrow  strength,  and  while  he  learned 
slowly  he  remembered;  not  always,  however,  with  profit. 
He  had  no  mental  finenesses;  no  taste  for  art  nor  music. 
He  knew  no  pleasant  difference  between  a  Murillo  and 
a  three-sheet  poster.  He  would  have  had  no  prefer- 
ence for  one  of  Schubert's  serenades  over  "  The 
Arkansaw  Traveler."  He  would  rather  talk  than  read, 
eat  than  talk,  fish  than  eat,  drink  than  fish. 

Cleveland  was  a  creature  of  impulse  rather  than  of 
thought-born  decision.  Would  one  teach  him  any- 
thing, one  must  teach  him  through  the  eye.  What  he 
saw  he  knew;  what  he  heard — unless  it  were  to  some- 
one's disadvantage — made  slight  impression.  Cleve- 
land turned  credulous,  ready  ear  to  slander.  When  he 
was  President  the  commonest  blackleg  of  party,  one 
whose  plaudit  could  not  aid  one,  might  tear  down  good 
repute  with  a  word.  Nor  might  the  affirmations  of 
honest  men  stand  against  the  malice  and  mendacity 
of  that  one  blackleg. 

Flattery  was  the  most  potent  lever  in  the  case  of 
Cleveland.  Those  thrived  best  who  flattered  best.  He 
was  amenable  to  the  tickle  of  the  sycophant  as  ever 
was  swine  to  cob.  One  might  have  stuck  bills  on  him 
so  it  were  done  with  "soft  soap."  As  a  result,  those  who 


THE  SYCOPHANTS  HEYDAY.  265 

stood  close  to  Cleveland  were  either  cunning  or  servile. 
They  chanted  his  praises;  and  they  never  contradicted 
nor  bid  him  pause.  Some  were  crafty  and  fawned  upon 
him  to  use  him  to  their  ends.  Others  were  mere  crin- 
gers.  But  honest  natures,  strong,  open,  frank  men 
who  would  tell  to  him  the  truth,  were  soon  brought 
to  stay  away.  He  wanted  none  such  near  him. 

Cleveland  delighted  in  the  little,  and  would  labor 
pantingly  at  the  windlass  of  small  things.  It  was  this 
bent  of  the  infinitesimal  that  led  him  to  put  in  hours 
darkly  arranging  a  reason  to  shatter  some  old  woman's 
pension  with  the  bludgeon  of  his  veto. 

Cleveland  was  by  nature  a  Tory.  He  had  no  innate 
conception  of  republicanism;  no  knowledge,  native  or 
acquired,  of  the  school  to  which  free  America  belongs. 
Had  he  lived  in  that  furnace  hour  of  Bunker  Hill,  his 
substitute  would  have  worn  a  red  coat,  and  fought  at 
the  foot  of  that  renowned  eminence  against  Warren 
and  the  others  at  the  top.  His  trend  was  monarchical. 
Three  times  within  three  years  he  aligned  himself  with 
a  throne;  in  Samoa,  Hawaii,  and  last  in  Brazil.  He 
succeeded  in  Samoa;  and  this  country,  with  England 
and  Germany,  upheld  a  king  in  those  far  islands.  He 
failed  in  Hawaii  with  his  clumsy  king-making,  and  pub- 
lic opinion  frightened  him  away  from  "  Queen  Lil." 
Mendonca  scared  him  backward  with  a  laugh  and  a 
sneer  in  the  case  of  Brazil.  His  ever-Toryism  was  at 
the  brakes!  With  Cuba  bleeding  at  our  gate,  with  a 
people  and  a  Congress  demanding  her  relief,  Cleveland 
to  the  last  refused. 

Men  called  Cleveland  ungrateful.  Those  who  helped 
him  most  were  most  roundly  rebuffed.  The  flatterer, 
the  sycophant,,  the  boneless  Mugwump  waxed  rich  by 


266  RICHARD  CROKER. 

his  favor;  the  friend  who  built  him  went  without  re- 
ward; the  laborer  of  party  without  his  hire. 

To  egotism  and  a  coarse  greed  Cleveland  added  the 
heart  of  a  hare.  None  was  more  flightily  timid  in  a 
physical  way.  Perhaps  it  was  this  that  kept  him  from 
the  war  when  the  nation  fought  for  its  life  in  the  six- 
ties, and  Cleveland,  aged  twenty-three,  in  perfect 
health  without  wife  to  weep  or  wean  to  stay  him,  took 
heed  he  didn't  go.  What  a  Curtius!  How  Rome 
would  have  reared  a  column  to  him!  When  Cleveland 
aforetime  left  Washington  for  Buzzard's  Bay  or 
"  ducks,"  he  skulked  secretly  from  town.  His  coming 
back,  as  to  its  date,  was  earnestly  covered  from  a 
world's  knowledge.  When  once  he  returned  from  Buz- 
zard's Bay,  I  chanced  to  be  at  the  station.  The  rabble, 
whereof  I  was  a  unit,  knew  nothing  of  Cleveland's  com- 
ing. The  train  drew  up.  Cleveland  descended  and  ap- 
proached the  gate.  Tljere  were  only  a  few  to  be 
pleased  and  to  cheer.  As  he  came  near,  twenty  Secret 
Service  spies,  there  for  that  brave  work,  stepped  from 
their  listening,  peeping  places  among  the  feared  and 
common  herd,  and  cordoned  that  President  and  "  pro- 
tected him  "  to  his  carriage.  It  was  a  pride-flattering 
pageant! 

During  the  last  three  years  of  Cleveland  a  ring 
of  sentry  boxes  rose  up  about  the  White  House. 
The  Presidential  police  force  was  recruited  to  twenty- 
six  men.  Each  night  a  trio  of  those  guardsmen  pervaded 
the  White  House  corridors.  More  were  in  the  grounds. 
Then  the  President  could  sleep.  It  cost  eighty  dollars 
a  day,  which  made  it  high-priced  slumber.  When 
Cleveland  would  ride,  an  armed,  booted,  spurred  de- 
tective, with  a  foolish  revolver  on  his  foolish  hip, 


MEASURELESS  EGOTISM.  267 

swung  to  his  foolish  saddle  and  clattered  foolishly 
behind. 

In  the  luxuriance  of  a  measureless  egotism,  Cleve- 
land was  wont  to  hold  that  he  elected  the  party.  His 
courtiers,  as  they  fanned  and  fawned  and  flattered, 
assured  him  of  this,  and  he  believed  them.  Every  de- 
feat the  Democracy  suffered  after  1892  served  as  proof 
to  him.  It  warmed  him  with  mild  pleasure  as  he  saw 
reflected  in  the  hopeless  returns  his  popularity.  "  See 
what  happens  when  I'm  not  running! "  he  argued,  and 
drew  a  glow  from  party  defeat  like  an  inspiration.  It 
was  this  that  taught  him  that  the  patronage  was  his 
and  not  the  party's.  And  he  used  it  to  please  himself; 
to  push  his  way  with  Congress,  and  as  jewels  wherewith 
to  deck  his  flatterers  and  spaniels  of  politics. 

One  offshoot  of  this  egotism,  partly  born  of  timidity, 
was  Cleveland's  secrecy.  While  President,  he  locked 
every  door,  turned  down  every  light,  gagged  every 
mouth,  hid  everything  he  might.  There  are  but  two 
keys  to  go  with  government;  one  is  to  the  Treasury, 
the  other  to  the  jail.  But  Cleveland's  whole  thought 
was  for  chains  and  padlocks.  He  hated  questions,  he 
hated  newspapers,  he  hated  lights. 

Cleveland  held  that  a  President  was  a  guardian. 
Bayard  was  mirror  to  Cleveland  when  he  said  that  the 
American  people  were  a  turbulent  and  unruly  brood, 
and  required  "  a  strong  ruler  "  like  Cleveland  to  keep 
them  in  check.  Mark  the  word  "ruler."  That  was 
the  Cleveland  idea.  A  President  "  rules  "  the  country; 
the  people  are  his  subjects.  That  was  the  song  his 
courtiers  sang. 

In  his  egotism,  Cleveland,  given  a  White  House, 
played  the  tyrant.  He  frowned  down  suggestion, 


268  RICHARD  CROKER. 

and  he  ignored  the  people.  He  would  turn  Congress- 
men from  his  door  until  they  wearied  of  coming.  No 
claim  was  strong  enough  to  gain  entrance  to  him 
against  his  whim.  Within  three  days  after  the  repeal 
of  the  Sherman  law,  wherein  Voorhees  and  Mills  both 
lost  their  political  lives  to  do  his  will,  he  refused  to  see 
them. 

Millions  were  made  by  the  coterie  about  the  White 
House  in  those  last  four  years  of  Cleveland;  made  when 
an  extra  session  ballooned  the  market;  made  with 
bond  deals;  made  with  tariff.  Cleveland  would  ring 
out  in  tariff.  The  administration  was  doing  all  it 
might  to  put  the  Havemeyer  schedule  on  sugar.  And 
when  Gorman  wouldn't,  Cleveland  refused  to  sign  the 
bill,  and  for  ten  days  gave  the  longest  possible  limit  of 
law  to  the  Trust  to  bring  in  sugar  free.  That  ten-day 
"  pout "  cost  the  Treasury  ten  million  dollars  and  the 
people  ten  times  more. 

Cleveland  called  an  extra  session;  to  the  advantage 
of  Benedict  and  the  then  White  House  circle  of  fa- 
vorites. Congress  came;  and  he  threw  his  patronage 
right  and  left  and  pulled  on  the  ropes  and  worked  at 
legislation  like  a  common  sailor.  "  Eepeal  the  pur- 
chasing clause  of  the  Sherman  law!  "  he  said,  "  and  the 
business  sun  will  shine,  the  business  grass  will  grow, 
and  a  deep  and  lush  prosperity  will  be  ours  again." 
His  prophecies  fell  flat  with  a  great  failure.  It  was 
the  same  in  the  tariff  instance.  It  was  the  same  with 
bonds.  It  was  ever  "  do  this "  and  "  do  that,"  and 
time  and  the  tide  will  turn  and  good  come  riding  in! 
From  first  to  last  he  was  a  false  prophet.  No  one  had 
the  blessings  of  which  he  preached  save  the  tariffites 
and  the  bondites  and  the  ones  about  the  throne.  The 


AND  BONDS  CAME.  '        269 

backstairs  Cabinet  and  the  pool  with  White  House 
passkeys  prospered  mightily.  The  public  interest  went 
lank  and  worn  and  hungry. 

When  Cleveland  came  in  1893  he  found  the  Treasury 
on  the  rocks.  He  kept  it  there.  He  pounded  a  hole 
in  the  bottom  and  stuffed  the  leak  with  two  hundred 
and  forty  million  dollars'  worth  of  bonds.  He  sold 
these  at  104;  and  the  next  day  they  brought  120,  and 
bring  it  as  this  is  read.  Had  a  Mayor  of  New  York  so 
indulged  himself,  a  special  Grand  Jury  would  have 
been  on  his  ready  trail  with  horn  of  law  and  hound  of 
inquiry.  But  bonds  were  to  go  and  go  and  go  again; 
and  as  a  byplay,  and  just  to  show  the  sympathy  which 
dwells  between  our  millionaires,  Carnegie's  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  thousand  dollars'  fine,  imposed  for 
rotten  armor  plates,  was  to  be  remitted.  There  was 
none  of  this  during  Harrison's  term.  Cold  he  was, 
unsocial  he  was,  an  unlovely  soul  at  best;  but  honest 
was  Harrison,  and  as  lucid-pure  as  ice. 

When  Cleveland  came  in,  the  bond-wolves  began  to 
howl  and  snarl  about  the  gold.  Carlisle  planned  in 
the  early  summer  of  ninety-three  to  do  as  Manning  did 
in  eighty-five.  Cleveland  took  his  pronunciamento 
from  him,  wrote  it  over,  crossed  out  silver,  and  made 
Carlisle  say  that  he  would  pay  gold — nothing  but  gold 
— while  a  dollar  shimmered  in  his  till.  That  was  what 
the  bondites  wanted.  They  bled  three  bond  issues 
from  the  people. 

But  these  were  the  big  weeds  of  Cleveland's  govern- 
ment. The  little  ones  flourished  as  rankly  strong. 
The  lighthouse-tender  example  was  not  wasted.  The 
Dolphin — unpaid  for  to  the  dead  John  Eoach — became 
a  department  yacht.  One  assistant  secretary  of  the 


270  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

Treasury  would  junket  in  one  revenue  cutter  to  Alaska, 
while  another  assistant  secretary  ordered  another 
revenue  cutter  from  her  station  at  Baltimore  around 
to  Fortress  Monroe,  for  purely  picnic  purposes.  The 
Commissioner  of  Immigration, — who  reported  fewer 
than  three  thousand  paupers  turned  back  in  a  year  at 
an  expense  of  two  hundred  and  twenty-six  thousand 
dollars, — not  to  be  outdone,  would  take  a  learned  assist- 
ant and  plunge  across  Europe,  from  the  Shetlands  to 
the  Dardanelles,  for  the  "instruction  of  the  Govern- 
ment in  immigration ";  while  the  Fish  Commission 
went  about  its  useful  work  by  dispersing  itself  through- 
out the  Maine  lakes,  where,  with  naphtha  launches  and 
much  goods  in  bottles,  it  propagated  fish.  In  this  day 
Crime  robs  the  Government  with  a  gun — the  rough  and 
lusty  method  of  the  footpad.  In  that  day  it  was  bleed 
and  embezzle  and  larcenize  by  indirection,  while  the 
public  looked  the  other  way.  They  drove  Williams  from 
Grant's  Cabinet  because  his  wife  rode  in  a  landaulet  at 
the  expense  of  the  government.  Williams  lived  too  soon. 

Well!  have  done.  The  above  exhibits  a  few  of  the 
easy  high  places  in  the  Cleveland  career.  His  adminis- 
tration was  failure.  Moreover,  it  was  of  revenge,  of 
treason  to  the  party,  of  wrong  to  public  weal.  At  home 
the  country  was  thrown  to  Wall  Street;  abroad  it  was 
made  the  laugh  of  Europe.  Only  one  thing  was  right — 
the  Venezuela  utterance.  And  the  dead  Gresham  did 
that. 

Still,  one  must  be  fair.  Cleveland,  as  well  as  every 
President,  has  partial  excuse  for  his  delinquencies, 
whether  they  be  ones  overt  or  of  omission.  The  office 
is  tremendously  bigger  than  the  man.  The  office  con- 
trols the  occupant  and  drives  him  like  a  horse  in  har- 


TEE  BUILDERS  WERE  RIGHT.  271 

ness.  The  President  can't  half  help  himself,  and  in 
more  than  most  of  his  action  does  as  he's  commanded, 
goes  where  he's  compelled.  The  detail  of  Presidential 
effort,  and  as  well  its  broader  marks,  are  much  predes- 
tined. It's  as  if  one  were  made  President  of  an  ice- 
berg, or  a  glacier,  or  the  Hudson  River.  The  drift- 
ing of  the  one,  the  slow  marching  of  the  second  down 
its  glen,  and  the  solemn  sweep  of  the  last,  have  each 
its  simile  in  the  journeying  of  a  great  nation  along  its 
lines  of  fate.  No  chance-created  pygmy  of  a  President 
may  bridle  or  direct.  One  were  as  wise  who  strove  to 
stanch  the  Mississippi  with  a  wisp  of  straw. 

Cleveland's  second  elevation — and  his  rule  from  1892 
to  1896  was  worse  than  revolution — should  last  a  cen- 
tury as  a  lesson  to  the  people.  It  was  the  public,  and 
not  the  "  politicians,"  who  demanded  him.  The  poli- 
ticians objected,  Tammany  objected;  but  the  people 
demanded,  and  the  people  had  their  way.  The  archi- 
tects and  builders  of  party  declined  Cleveland;  the 
people  interfered  and  took  him  up.  The  stone  which 
the  builders  rejected  was  made  the  cornerstone  of  the 
temple,  and  the  subsequent  history  of  that  edifice 
showed  that  the  builders  were  right. 


XVI. 

SNOBS,   MY   MASTEES! 

It  is  a  hard  matter  to  save  that  country  whtre  a  fish  sells  for  more 
than  an  ox. —  Cato. 

HE  who  lives  without  cynicism  lives  without  safety, 
and  hate  is  but  the  other  side  of  love.  And  what  has 
that  to  do  with  us?  Nothing,  nothing,  your  worships; 
wherefore  let  us  say  no  more  about  it. 

That  one  more  loathly  thing  than  work  is  idleness. 
These  are  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  existence;  eter- 
nally are  we  destroyed  in  the  whirlpool-suck  of  her 
with  the  dogs,  or  leaped  upon  and  lost  to  the  six  dart- 
ing and  hungry  heads  of  that  sister  monster  across  the 
straits.  Let  us  in  such  dilemma  refuse  our  tasks;  let 
us  throw  down  the  sculls  of  effort  while  the  boat  goes 
where  she  may.  So  shall  we  have  motion  without 
labor;  something  will  gain  accomplishment  while  noth- 
ing is  done.  This  may  be  the  middle  course  Ulysses 
tried  for;  the  happy  medium  sought  for  by  the  sage. 
Let  us  go,  then,  with  the  currents.  There  is  more  and 
wider  water  down-stream  than  up,  and  as  a  ceremony 
it  is  far  easier — while  quite  as  graceful — to  drift  all 
day  than  pull  an  oar  an  hour. 

It  is  in  one's  mind  to  be  cynical.  And  why  not? 
These  be  days  to  make  one  bilious,  and  bile  is  the 
parent  of  cynicism.  Idleness  in  purple,  industry  in 
homespun!  Honesty  at  hard  labor,  wliile  crime  wears 

872 


THAT  BEDLAM  LARGESSE.        2V3 

the  crown!  Ah,  well;  it  has  been  so  in  all  the  ages! 
True  worth  was  ever  a  peasant  and  tilled  the  soil,  and 
scum  comes  surely  to  the  top.  Futility  is  the  fashion 
and  Fashion  is  the  king.  Let  us  crowd  to  the  throne- 
room. 

What  fools  we  mortals  be!  Also,  what  snobs!  One 
multimillionaire  becomes  benevolent  with  books.  And 
all  the  sycophants  are  burning  incense  to  him  as  if 
the  incense  bore  insurance.  That  multimillionaire 
may  found  libraries,  or  rear  spires,  or  place  alms  in 
the  thin  and  claw-like  hand  of  Want.  Yet  the  gold  of 
his  charity  shall  wear  the  stain  of  the  blood  and  the 
mire  in  which  it  was  gathered.  There's  nothing  novel, 
naught  to  shout  over,  in  what  this  rich  one  is  .about. 
It  has  been  done  by  sinful  Wealth  when,  fear-threat- 
ened of  Futurity,  the  Unknown  of  beyond-the-grave 
had  it  under  cow  in  every  age.  And  now,  because  it 
trembles  before  what  will  be  and  tires  of  what  soddenly 
is,  and  starts  on  some  crusade  of  Bedlam  largesse,  this 
Wealth  won  in  wickedness  is  to  have  present  halo  and 
take  its  austere  reverend  stand  among  the  saints. 

Well;  and  why  not  canonize  it?  It  is  only  a  hand- 
ful of  years  since  a  band  of  worshipful  clergy  gathered 
— a  muster  of  surpliced  Tories — and  "sainted"  Charles 
the  First.  "  He  died  a  martyr  for  his  faith,"  they 
sobbed,  and  wrote  his  name  on  the  holy  list.  It  is  a 
proud  thought  with  some  that  sundry  of  their  ancestors 
were  busy  when  Charles  was  chopped,  doing  all  they 
might  to  promote  the  "  martyrdom  "  of  our  royal  can- 
didate for  saintship. 

What  snobs  we  be!  Even  our  colleges  are  poisoned 
of  it,  and  one  young  billionaire  is  made  the  object  of 
some  college  ballot  honors  for  his  "  peerless  social 


274  RICHARD  CROEER. 

genius."  Yes,  in  good  fact!  our  great  schools  are  smit- 
ten of  snobbery.  "  Seminaries  of  learning " — wrote 
John  Quincy  Adams  in  his  diary — "  seminaries  of 
learning  have  been  timeservers  and  sycophants  in  all 
ages."  Adams  would  write  more  stingingly,  were  he 
here  to-day.  And  themselves  snobs,  is  it  wonder  the 
colleges  suckle  snobbery?  Perhaps  this  last  is  to  be 
traced  to  parents  rather  than  the  schools.  Sure  it  is 
that  herds  of  young  ones  are  sent  collegeward  by  the 
hope,  not  that  they'll  learn  anything  from  lecture  or 
from  book,  but  rather  that  they  may  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  future  rich  weaklings,  to  become  here- 
after in  equal  parts  their  patrons  and  their  prey. 

What  snobs  we  be!  The  clergy  and  the  colleges  lead 
while  the  journals  beat  the  drum!  The  clergy?  Yes, 
my  friend!  Is  it  a  wedding  of  wealth?  or  a  billion- 
dollar  baptism?  or  a  funeral  where  great  riches  remain? 
Then  to  altar  or  font  or  bier  the  certain  clergy  come 
darting  like  kites  to  a  quarry.  What  snobs  we  be! 
Do  you  know  that  folk  love  and  wed  and  are  born  and 
wearily  die  in  Mott  and  Mulberry  and  Baxter  and 
Essex  and  Hester  streets,  every  day  in  the  year,  and 
that  the  last  to  be  bothered  by  it  is  a  bishop? 

Thank  Heaven  for  the  Eocky  Mountains!  They 
make  at  least  one-third  of  the  area  of  the  United 
States,  and  the  very  "  lay  of  the  land  "  puts  snobbery 
out  of  the  question.  The  toady  is  topographically  im- 
possible. Thank  Heaven  for  the  precipitous  rudeness 
of  the  Rockies!  They  shall  yet  serve  as  the  home  of  a 
strong  and  saving  race — the  American  Swiss — who 
are  to  be  the  backbone  of  the  country,  as  their  crags  are 
the  backbone  of  the  continent. 

Snobbery  begins  to  obtain  in  politics  as  well  as  take 


AND  THE  TRUSTS  COMfi.  M& 

a  smirking  hand  in  trade.  The  small  bow  before  the 
strong;  the  little  fag  for  the  powerful.  In  politics  the 
result  is  corruption;  in  commerce,  Trusts.  One  is  not 
mad  with  any  ardor  of  pessimism.  One  has  no  mood 
to  become  of  that  group  of  ebb-tide  patriots  who  deem 
it  impossible  to  rule  with  innocence,  and  hold  that 
every  king  must  be  a  Catiline.  One  does  not  believe 
that  every  hill  is  a  Calvary,  every  reward  a  Cross;  and 
that  Truth  is  ever  foundering,  unsuccored,  on  shores  it 
sought  to  save.  One  is  not  victim  of  any  slackwater 
optimism,  nor  has  one's  hope  been  seized  of  a  dyspepsia. 
One  is  sustained  by  one's  religion  of  politics,  which 
plants  itself  on  the  belief,  as  on  a  rock,  that  true  repub- 
licanism is  imperishable  for  that  true  republicanism  is 
God.  Yet  while  one  does  not  fear,  one  submits  one  is 
not  flattered  of  any  present  promise  of  the  times.  The 
hands  of  the  dial,  pointing  to  trouble,  point  to  Trusts. 
It  is  a  day  of  weakness  and  corruption  in  halls  where 
law  is  made.  One  should  meet  one's  times  boldly. 
One  should  counsel  war  on  what  politically  is.  One  is 
not  to  be  with  opportunists  who  weakly  hesitate  at  dan- 
ger and  would  for  peace  be  half  a  slave.  One  should 
not  follow  a  Eousseau,  who,  failing  to  teach  France  to 
think,  tamed  himself  to  copy  music  that  it  might  dance, 
and  so  gained  sordid  bread.  Such  is  to  starve  the 
Man  to  feed  the  Beast. 

Monopoly,  fecund  of  Trust,  spawns  like  a  pike; 
Principle,  unmated  of  popular  effort,  lies  in  a  barren 
bed.  The  enemy  strengthens  himself  while  folk  idle. 
The  march  of  the  Trusts  marks  the  march  of  Igno- 
rance; the  sun  of  progress  borders  to  an  eclipse  of 
Money  and  another  Dark  Age  may  descend.  Someone 
once  said  that:  "  Law  is  the  safest  helmet."  The  value 


276  RICHARD  CROKER. 

of  the  apothegm  depends  upon  who  wears  this  steel  cap. 
If  it  be  Honesty,  good!  But  if  Monopoly  go  to  Wash- 
ington and  forge  itself  some  headpiece  of  a  statute  the 
story  runs  fearfully  different.  It  is  not  always  true 
that  a  State  has  added  to  its  safety  when  it  has  added 
to  its  laws.  As  things  are,  one  is  all  but  free  to  say 
that  one  despairs  of  virtuous  legislation.  In  those  law- 
lists,  Eight  seems  ever  to  go  down  before  the  shock  of 
Eiches.  There  should  be  change — change  unusual  and 
change  that  reaches  far. 

•"  It  is  better  to  be  a  poor  fisherman  than  to  meddle 
with  the  government  of  men,"  said  Danton.  But  the 
Frenchman  was  in  a  tumbrel  at  the  time  and  suffered 
some  coming  confusion  of  the  guillotine.  Had  he  been 
given  freedom  and  a  sober  second  thought,  he  would 
have  seen  that  the  citizen  is  driven  to  "meddle  with 
government "  to  keep  it  from  meddling  villainously 
with  him.  Therefore,  let  the  public  become  intelli- 
gently meddlesome.  Nor  should  it  hesitate;  nor  go 
halfway.  There  should  come  no  blackmail  of  a 
partial  peace.  It  is  the  worst  of  oppression  that 
makes  craven  terms  with  tyranny.  This  is  an  era  of 
potato-bug  politics.  Monopoly  devours  what  the 
people  rear.  Some  stand  must  be  made,  some  near  and 
stubborn  stand,  or  the  century  will  witness  us  destroyed 
and  overrun.  He  will  be  wise  of  that  day  who,  living 
without  flag  as  without  citizenship,  carries  his  country 
on  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 

It  will  be  warfare  hard  and  breathless;  this  stand 
against  Monopoly.  These  combines  of  rapacity  and 
capital  which,  as  Lord  Thurlow  puts  it,  "  Have  neither 
souls  to  lose  nor  bodies  to  kick,"  are  the  folk  difficult. 
Much  of  peril,  too,  comes  from  the  turned-'round  con- 


THE  RED  BRUTE-MAN.  Wl 

dition  of  the  common  taste.  There  is  too  much  luxury, 
too  much  excess;  too  many  for  themselves,  too  few  for 
all,  and  Virtue  plays  a  second  violin.  We  have  come 
too  far  from  a  simplicity  of  the  fathers  which  made 
that  middle  safety  between  the  politically  too-little  and 
too-much.  The  edge  of  civic  apprehension  is  lost. 
One  sees  this  in  the  absolute  honesty  of  many  of  the 
Trust-makers  in  their  dishonesty.  One  sees  it  in  that 
stolid  disregard  which  the  public  to  be  exploited  be- 
stows upon  them. 

There  is  a  coarse  red  MAN  who  preaches  Trusts  as  a 
principle.  He  stands  close  to  the  American  throne  and 
is  its  prop.  He  is  no  hypocrite;  he  believes  what  he  pro- 
claims. It  is  only  that  his  Titan  interests  are  yoked  of 
an  ignorance  equally  Titanic.  Like  some  toad  in 
stone,  he  is  become  imbedded  in  his  own  affairs  and 
exists  unreachable  of  any  touch  not  having  source  in 
self.  Such  malignants  as  this  MAN,  by  an  imbecile  in- 
tegrity, become  a  double  danger.  There's  a  sin  that's 
honest,  just  as  there's  a  hate  that  declines  a  bribe  as 
soon  as  love.  Even  such  rude  and  brutish  aggressionists 
as  this  MAN,  commerce-gorged  and  money-fat,  may  be 
acting  veraciously  by  their  blurred  lights,  and  so  pass 
guiltless  of  moral  turpitude.  What  they  do,  like  the 
handless  acts  of  a  rattlesnake,  may  plead  the  defense  of 
nature. 

Indeed,  one  is  inclined  to  this  theory,  for  one  has  be- 
held the  leaden  wonder  of  this  MAN  on  a  strike  occa- 
sion when  poor  folk  begged.  He  looked  on  them  as  if 
happiness  were  a  new  idea,  and  common  justice  yet  to 
have  invention.  The  swinishness  of  the  MAN  could 
conceive  of  no  rule  save  the  rule  of  desire;  and  in  this 
savage  staring  there  shone  a  hideous  humor.  It  would 


have  been  comedy  had  it  not  been  tragedy,  and  were  it 
possible  for  murder  to  furnish  fun. 

For  all  that,  while  one  may  excuse  of  sin  such  as  this 
MAN,  as  one  holds  blameless  some  dumb,  unmindful 
beast,  they  must  still  be  met  and  dealt  with.  These 
heathen  of  riches  are  in  want  of  baptism  anew. 
Their  times  cry  for  that  priest  to  say  to  them  as  spoke 
the  Church  to  the  wild  Clovis:  "  Bend  thy  neck,  proud 
Sicambrian;  adore  what  thou  hast  burned,  burn  what 
thou  hast  adored! " 

But  one  should  not  wax  over-weary;  one's  hurts  are 
doubtless  part  of  the  day's  work.  One  might  better 
pause.  Sisyphus  should  have  occasional  repose;  and 
Apollo  can't  always  be  bending  his  bow.  Talk  is  tire- 
some alike  to  talker  and  him  talked  to.  Also,  to  preach 
danger  to  some  timid  ones  is  to  shoot  at  a  loon  on  a 
lake.  They  dive  at  the  first  flash  of  phrase  and  are 
under  water  before  any  bullet  of  argument  or  fact  at- 
tains to  them.  Moreover,  one's  inspiration  must  be 
rested  and  baited  of  a  new  Hope.  There  be  tired  times 
when  one  loses  faith  in  one's  very  self.  One  sees  so 
much  of  the  unexpected  cart-before-the-horse.  It 
daunts  one's  reason  and  bids  it  doubt  itself.  The  mag- 
net lies  still,  the  steel  filings  ramp  and  fasten;  yet  one 
learns,  before  one  is  done,  that  it  was  the  magnet  that 
furnished  the  impulse  and  the  activities  of  the  steel- 
dust  were  compelled.  And  so  it  runs  throughout,  and 
defeats  the  blushes  of  ardent  young  Conclusion.  The 
magnet  attracts,  the  passive  controls,  the  alkali  has 
kingdom  over  the  acid,  weakness  is  power,  and  one  be- 
gins to  know  with  the  German  that  "the  female 
selects."  And  so  one  is  taught  to  discount  the 
voice  of  Eeason.  One  even  concludes  that  were 


OEEED  AND  MONOPOLY.  279 

folk  to  take  chart  of  deduction  and  compass  of  con- 
jecture, and,  chucking  both  overboard,  steer  by 
lights  of  fixed  instinct,  all  would  come  better  off. 
It  is  by  no  means  clear,  since  Monopoly  holds  the 
torch,  that  existence  is  such  laughter.  Monopoly  has 
driven  happiness  from  half  the  earth  and  cut  down  the 
visible  supply  of  joy  by  fifty  per  cent.  One  was  ex- 
pected of  Omnipotence  to  have  a  good  time  aboard  this 
rolling,  weltering  world  of  ours,  plowing  its  blind 
course  through  rimless  ages.  One  was  not  sent  to 
suffer.  But  Greed  and  Monopoly,  working  in  latter 
times  to  produce  the  Trust,  have  seized  on  what  was 
meant  as  a  craft  of  comfort  and  made  a  galley  of  her. 
They  have  chained  each  to  his  oar,  there  to  toil  till  his 
heart  breaks. 

And  there  is  a  gap  in  the  walls  where  enters  a  half 
hopelessness.  There  be  folk  who  agree  to  their  bonds 
as  to  the  will  of  Fate  and  forget  the  freedom  that  be- 
longs to  them.  The  capacities  of  these  feebleized  ones 
are  crippled.  Mindless,  unlighted  as  to  their  rights, 
they  also  dwell  in  midnight  concerning  their  responsi- 
bilities. They  are,  roundly,  bad  citizens.  They  com- 
prise that  wrong,  respectable  lot  who  hesitate  over  a 
consequence  rather  than  an  act.  Their  moral  thought 
is  all  ajar.  They  shrink  from  a  capture,  not  a  felony; 
they  have  forgotten  what  Mme.  Roland  remembered 
— that  shame  is  not  of  the  scaffold,  but  of  the  crime. 
With  such  code,  and  with  the  further  conviction  that 
Money  is  the  only  nobleman,  given  safety  for  their  per- 
sons and  their  "  reputations,"  these  gentry,  of  no  color, 
abide  abjectly  docile  to  Money's  word  and  rein. 

Still  these  spaniel  people — these  weak  ones  in  good 
clothes,  who  crouch  before  the  upraised  thong  of 


280  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Money — are  not  the  virile  ones.  And  some  day  there'll 
come  grief.  Some  particular  outrage  will  set  the 
brand  to  the  growing  long-grass  of  a  public  resentment, 
and  woe  will  spread  like  a  prairie  fire.  And  with  the 
horizon  of  coming  time  more  than  half  consented  to  as 
filled  with  the  dark  topsails  of  trouble  on  its  way, 
what  do  the  "parties"  do?  What  do  our  great  con- 
tending armies  of  politics  offer  to  the  day's  defense? 
Democracy  proffers  nothing  and  does  less.  The  Re- 
publican  remedy  is  to  swell  the  Army  and  poke  the  fire 
with  a  sword. 

We  sit  too  much  in  the  shadows;  we  are  too  much 
ridden  of  a  superstition  of  Money.  We  are  too  apt  at 
hat-doffing  and  to  remove  our  shoes  and  fall  on  our 
knees  before  a  million  dollars.  In  older  Europe  and 
an  elder  day,  the  noble  kicked  the  peasant,  the  king 
kicked  the  noble,  and  the  Church  kicked  the  king. 
That  wasn't  so  bad  as  now  and  here,  when  Money 
alone  does  the  kicking — kicks  the  public  with  that 
threefold  force  which  aforetime  found  triangular  di- 
version and  distribution.  That's  a  prime  malady  of 
our  hour;  we  enthrone  Riches.  We  are  taught  this  by 
papers  which  rave  over  a  billion-dollar  babe,  or  swoon  at 
the  spectacle  of  a  millionaire  in  a  "  common  jury  box." 
The  world  should  be  too  manly  and  too  wise  to  tolerate 
such  tutelage.  As  if  a  babe  in  an  ivory  crib,  with 
swan's-down  swathings,  sucking  milk  from  cut  glass, 
were  any  more  a  babe!  As  though  a  millionaire  in  a  jury 
box  were  other  than  any  highly  muddled  gentleman  in 
like  position!  It  is  at  this  pinch  that  correction  should 
seize  humanity  by  its  truckling  collar  and  straighten 
it  up. 

If  one  bows  one's  self  at  the  seat  of  Money,  why 


THE  SYSTEM  OF  THE  BEAR.  281 

shouldn't  Money  set  foot  on  one's  neck?  If  one  pro- 
claim one's  self  serf,  why  shouldn't  Money  proclaim  its 
mastery?  Stand  up,  man!  brush  the  dust  off  your 
knees,  scuffle  into  your  shoes,  get  your  hat  on,  and 
assume  some  self-respecting  virtue  though  you  have  it 
not.  If  it's  money  you  want,  be  something  more  than 
slave,  and  you  may  win  some.  Crouch,  and  it's  sure 
you'll  have  naught  save  cuffs  and  crumbs.  Never  hesi- 
tate; face  Money.  Then  it  is  harmless;  it  couldn't 
reach  one  in  a  round  of  ages.  Fear  not  to  look  a  mil- 
lion dollars  in  the  eye;  it  will  turn  and  skulk  the  other 
way  like  any  other  brute. 

Time  was  when  I  sprawled  about  the  Kocky  Moun- 
tains; I  waxed  conversant  of  rattlesnakes  and  was  a 
student  of  bears.  Also  I  took  a  course  of  Indian. 
These  taught  me  that  the  systems  of  savagery  are  mas- 
ters of  the  systems  of  civilization;  that  the  primitive 
has  power  over  the  modern,  and  that  money  doesn't 
count  with  a  bear.  Encounter  a  savage  and  he  forces 
his  method  upon  you.  Our  troops  can't  compel  the 
Indians  to  fight  their  fashion;  the  savages  force  our 
soldiery  to  fight  their  fashion.  One  may  be  the  best 
boxer,  the  best  wrestler,  the  best  debater,  or  the  best 
thinker;  and  yet  should  one  become  entangled  of  a 
bear,  he'll  make  one  fight  bear-fashion.  He  won't  box, 
nor  wrestle,  nor  talk,  nor  think;  and  be  won't  let  you. 
That  bear  will  hunt  or  hug  or  maul  or  crunch  or  dally 
with  a  millionaire  as  if  the  victim  didn't  have  a  dol- 
lar. And  the  latter's  millions  will  have  with  the  bear 
no  more  of  current  avail  than  an  Irish  billet  of  ex- 
change. The  right  American,  in  the  political  presence 
of  Money,  should  adopt  the  sturdy  system  of  the  bear. 
If  you  meet  a  man  and  he  has  a  million — and  many  a 


282  RICHARD   CROKER. 

good  man  has — respect  the  man  and  don't  mind  the 
money.  If  you  discover  a  man  and  he  hasn't  a  mil- 
lion— if  he  be  even  moneyless — respect  the  man  and 
don't  let  the  absence  of  that  million  discourage  you. 
That  is  what  a  bear  would  do;  and  if  you  will  but  emu- 
late this  bear-example,  the  rule  of  riches  will  be  broken, 
and  Money,  from  the  high  places  which  your  parasite 
sort  has  permitted  it,  will  falter  and  fall  away. 

And  in  reaching  for  a  remedy,  oh,  American  beset! 
one  should  fail  not,  with  all  the  rest,  to  address  the 
President.  One  has  but  to  reach  and  teach  him,  to 
accomplish  most  in  mendment  of  an  hour.  He  is  the 
man  at  the  wheel;  affect  a  President,  and  one  affects  a 
course.  One  should  be  firm  and  plain  and  cool  and 
make  one's  self  apparent.  One  should  appeal,  for 
specimen,  like  this: 

Your  Excellency:  There  is  no  impulse  of  insult  in 
this.  There  is  also  little  hope.  You  present  the 
dampening  question  of  unknown  incapacity.  You  are 
a  cavern  of  a  man;  hollow,  dark,  and  with  little  to 
tempt  to  exploration.  You  do  not  say  much;  yet  your 
wordlessness  offers  nothing  to  confidence.  Cowley, 
the  Englishman,  remarked  of  a  lesser  Napoleon:  "He 
never  speaks  and  always  lies."  And  by  this  light 
there's  that  of  parallel  between  folk  one  wots  of  and 
the  Frenchman. 

While  you  are  but  little  relied  on,  you  have  still  at- 
tained to  the  Presidency.  You  have  sealed  the  highest 
peak  of  the  Alps  of  politics.  And  whether  as  Presi- 
dent you  be  the  offspring  of  accident  or  evil  coldly 
planned,  you  should  yet  have  a  pride  of  perch  and  yearn 
to  leave  a  name  half  worth  a  shaft  at  least.  And  this 
you  might  well  do.  You  know  the  sickness  of  the 


a 


w 

I 

I 

O 


PLAT  THE  PATRIOT.  283 

times.  We  are  cankered  serfs  of  Monopoly.  The 
Trusts  have  us  in  chains.  Caesar  boasted  that  he  found 
Rome  brick  and  left  her  marble.  You  may  have  a 
prouder  word.  You  may  write  of  your  regime:  "I 
found  Eome  slave  and  left  her  free." 

Why  not  play  what's  termed  the  "  patriot "  ?  Why 
wouldn't  it  be,  personally  and  politically,  wise  and  good 
to  stand  for  the  many  and  against  the  few?  Hayes,  a 
predecessor  who  left  the  Presidency  to  promote  a 
poultry  hastening  to  decay — once  stated:  "  He  serves 
best  his  party  who  serves  the  public  best."  And  Hayes 
was  right.  Defend  the  common  weal.  You  will 
thereby  sustain  your  to-day  while  making  certain  your 
to-morrow  of  renown.  This  is  within  your  ready 
swing.  Think,  man!  One  may  look  to  one's  future, 
while  one  secures  and  makes  sure  one's  present;  so 
order  one's  existence  as  to  be  ready  to  die  at  once  or 
live  one  hundred  years.  And  thus  may  you  do. 
Honesty  and  a  championship  of  the  people  would  bring 
encomium  now  and  shape  your  fame  forever. 

It  is  beating  against  wind  and  tide  to  talk  to  you. 
And  yet,  even  with  the  small  hppe  of  landing,  one  must 
press  on.  He  who  teaches  a  king,  if  it  be  no  more  than 
one  right  syllable,  befriends  a  people;  one  should  not 
surrender,  therefore,  without  a  struggle  the  chance  of 
touching  you.  As  the  hour  trends,  Monopoly  is  to  have 
finally  all.  And  in  that  devoured  day  we  will  as  a 
nation  present  a  lonely  case  of  "naught  but  green 
fields,  a  shepherd  and  a  dog";  with  Money  the  shep- 
herd, and  Government  the  dog  to  herd  and  drive  the 
people  to  the  shearing-sheds.  You,  in  the  White 
House,  could  avert  this  and  change  the  currents  of 
calamity.  He  would  be  thrice  a  felon  who  should  fail. 


284  RICHARD   CROEER. 

Do  you  cavil  at  a  turgidity  of  phrase?  You  need 
not.  This  is  but  a  poor  occasion  to  insist  on  any  rose 
water  of  words.  An  order  in  that  scented  behalf  would 
go  unheeded.  Thiers  complained  of  Bismarck,  as  they 
bickered  diplomatically  over  terms  of  peace,  that  the 
Iron  Chancellor  spoke  German  instead  of  French. 
"Do  I?"  responded  Bismarck.  "That  cannot  be 
helped,  my  friend.  When  I  confer  with  one,  and 
mean  that  he  shall  have  his  way,  I  speak  his  language. 
When  I  intend  to  have  my  way,  I  speak  my  own."  One 
does  not  presume  to  any  Bismarckian  power  of  coer- 
cion. But,  for  somewhat  a  Prussian  reason,  one  pre- 
fers to  be  explicit  in  one's  native  tongue  and  way. 

One  will  not,  oh,  Excellency!  rehearse  to  your  con- 
fusion any  abandonment  of  the  platform  on  which  you 
placed  yourself  to  ask  for  votes.  Platforms  are  the 
humbug  of  politics.  They  are  the  bell-ringing  before 
the  auction;  their  purpose  is  to  call  a  crowd,  not  make 
a  price.  In  this  experienced  day,  he  who  is  misled  by 
them  is  deeply  dense.  The  voter  should  ignore  a  plat- 
form to  look  hard  at  a  candidate.  He  should  put  the 
man  above  the  argument  in  his  consideration;  it  is  the 
horse  and  not  the  harness  that  pulls  the  load,  or  kicks, 
or  bolts,  or  balks,  or  runs  away.  One  is  not  shocked 
because  you  turned  your  elected  back  on  the  platform. 
Nor  does  one  declaim  against  partisanship  in  your 
appointments.  You  would  be  weak,  indeed,  when 
charged  with  the  responsibility  of  the  day,  did  you  call 
any  to  a  guard-tower  of  government  not  of  your  own 
and  trusted  clan.  But  the  right  to  be  partisan  does  not 
mean  the  right  to  betray  a  principle.  And  as  a  pilot 
you  are  bound  to  faithfulness  and  to  remember  and 
mind  your  marks. 


A   GORILLA  OF  GOLD.  285 

However,  it  is  not  concerning  such  as  platforms  and 
partisanship  that  one  is  in  present  earnest.  One  is 
but  warm  to  have  you  to  the  warpath  against  Mo- 
nopoly. As  an  earlier,  necessary  step  you  should  rid 
yourself  of  management.  Management  belittles  you 
by  its  mere  existence.  True !  it  was  management  which 
named  you  and  elected  you  at  the  polls.  Yet  it  fought 
for  its  own  hand.  You  owe  naught  of  debt  to  manage- 
ment, either  as  candidate  or  President.  'And  if  you 
did,  you  would  still  have  small  right  to  give  it  a  White 
House  for  four  years.  You  should  begin  your  fame- 
hunt  and  your  quest  of  public  good  by  turning  it  away. 
While  management  has  you  in  its  vulgar  fingers,  you 
will  never  teach  history  that  you  are  of  that  timber  to 
make  a  President;  still  less  of  the  marble  from  which 
to  carve  a  god. 

Even  if  you  were  to  politically  rebel  against  its 
masterful  eye,  management  could  not  destroy  you. 
And  if  it  could?  "  No  man,"  saith  the  Spartan,  "  can 
be  truly  free  who  fears  to  die."  And  this,  if  rightly 
looked  at,  points  to  management  and  applies  to  you. 
Put  management  from  you  at  all  hazard,  and  as  a 
brave  preliminary  to  being  great. 

Think  of  the  turnspit  littleness  of  the  attitude 
management  forces  you  to  keep.  You  are  made  to 
dance  attendance  on  its  word.  It  packs  you  with  that 
puppetry  which  is  to  amuse  and  please  its  vacation. 
What  a  prideless  destiny  is  this!  You,  a  President,  to 
deck  the  ignorant  leisure  of  a  mere  gorilla  of  gold! 
Can  a  winnowing  future,  seeking  wheat  from  chaff, 
deem  well  of  you  on  these  lacking  terms?  Therefore 
make  yourself  glorious  by  revolt,  and  grant  yourself  a 
serious  recrudescence  as  President  and  man.  You 


286  RICHARD  CROKER. 

must  revive  in  rebellion  against  management  or  hope 
of  fame  is  gone. 

You  say  that  as  a  country  we  are  making  money? 
And  if  it  be  so,  is  that  the  whole  of  liberty  and  the  last 
best  word  of  life?  We  are  rich,  yes;  that  is,  rich  in  a 
certain  way  of  dismal  disproportion.  It  were  better 
were  we  not  so  rich.  Of  what  advantage  are  a  few  more 
feathers  and  a  few  more  gems  that  but  wave  and  glisten 
to  breed  vanity  in  a  foolish  few,  and  envy  in  a  foolish 
many?  Eich,  yes.  Too  often,  however,  in  that  gam- 
bling, workless,  sudden  fashion  of  treasure  trove.  To 
tumble  to  great  fortune  is  seldom  good,  even  for  that 
envied  one  who  tumbles.  It  is  an  unsettling  disaster 
to  all  who  look  on.  Let  us  call  ourselves  rich,  then, 
and  make  swaggering  sentences  concerning  it.  And 
while  we  do,  our  taxes  are  growing,  our  debts  are 
growing,  our  army  is  growing,  our  rights  are 
going,  and  Money  has  more  and  men  have  daily 
less  to  say.  Is  that  a  burnished  story?  And  yet,  you 
might  change  all  with  a  blow  and  take  your  place  with 
the  Immortals.  Do  you  find  no  trumpet-blown  induce- 
ment in  such  chance?  Suppose  your  present  right- 
journeying  would  mean  challenge  to  management,  and 
through  that  frame  disappointment  to  a  list  of  leeches? 
There  is  a  money-itching  tribe  that  bear  the  relation 
to  government  that  wolves  do  to  sheep-culture.  They 
do  not  add  to  general  profit,  though  they  roll  in  fat 
themselves.  Such  gnawing  folk  are  worthy  no  regard. 
Their  good  means  public  loss;  a  stab  at  them  is  to  re- 
new ourselves  in  liberty. 

This  is  a  call  to  duty  and  these  be  oaken  words. 
They  smell  of  midnight  and  the  wick;  and  you  should 
weigh  them.  The  times  grant  naturalization  to  the 


THE  RADIANT 

devil  and  make  a  citizen  of  him.  He  puts  money  in  the 
bank  and  leads  in  politics.  Right  crawls  in  tatters 
to  its  kennel;  Wrong,  at  pleasant  ease,  goes  radiant  of 
its  gold.  As  affairs  turn,  the  Eevolution  was  fought 
too  soon;  Bunker  Hill  was  premature;  Valley  Forge  was 
failure  and  Yorktown  a  mistake. 


XVII. 

HILL  AND   GOKMAN. 

In  the  distracted  times  when  each  man  dreads 
The  bloody  stratagems  of  busy  heads. 
— Otway. 

"TAMMANY  HALL/'  observed  Richard  Croker, 
"  could  gain  no  mounting  good  from  a  "White  House, 
however  much  the  latter  might  be  friendly  or  inclined 
to  give  it  aid.  The  organization  is  entirely  local  in 
its  domain  of  toil.  It  must,  of  course,  be  regular; 
and,  therefore,  Tammany  must  work  its  best  in  a 
national  campaign  for  the  general  ticket,  and  it  ever 
does.  But  the  New  York  City  vote  is  peculiar.  There 
are  hundreds  here  who  are  against  us  nationally,  while 
locally  they  are  with  us.  And  so,  as  the  conflict  shifts 
from  city  to  country,  our  friends  are  frequently  our 
foes;  later,  when  the  war  returns  to  the  town,  they 
become  our  friends  again.  It  is  such  conditions  which 
make  a  national  campaign  nothing  save  a  season  of 
peril  for  Tammany  Hall.  Should  the  party  succeed, 
the  best  we  could  have  would  amount  to  no  more  than 
a  minimum  of  good  to  the  organization;  the  most  that 
we  commonly  hope  is  to  escape  without  getting  hurt." 

Croker  does  not  hunger  to  have  prominent  part  in 
any  President-making.  In  such  crackling  enter- 
prises it  ever  has  been  that  Tammany's  lot  in  the 
melodrama  was  the  blistering  role  of  catspaw.  Still, 
Croker  bears  steadily  his  burden  with  Tammany  in 


TWO  PRESIDENTIAL  PRAYERS.  289 

the  national  debate.  Nor  does  he  shrink  nor  seek  to 
evade  what  he  believes  to  be  a  duty.  He  is  ever  sin- 
cere, ever  squarely  aggressive;  indeed,  in  the  contest 
of  1900,  he  stood  alone  representative  of  about  all  the 
"  management "  the  general  Democracy  received. 

Following  Kelly,  when  Croker  took  supreme  com- 
mand of  Tammany  Hall,  there  were  two  of  the  party 
to  be  prominent  in  national  politics — and  each  had  a 
Presidential  prayer — with  whom  he  was  brought  into 
close  and  sudden  relations.  These  were  David  Bennett 
Hill  and  Arthur  Pue  Gorman.  Croker,  who  is  quick  in 
his  regards,  liked  the  latter  while  he  distrusted  the  first. 
"When  Croker  was  given  the  baton,  Cleveland  abode 
in  the  White  House,  while  Hill,  promoted  from  a  Lieu- 
tenant-Governorship by  Cleveland's  departure  to  a 
Presidency,  ruled  at  Albany.  Hill  was  eager  to  suc- 
ceed himself  as  a  Governor  regularly  named  and 
elected.  It  was  a  crisis  in  the  fortunes  of  Hill.  If  he 
were  not  set  to  lead  the  State's  ticket  in  the  next 
campaign,  he  would  go  to  the  bottom  like  an  anvil; 
the  waters  of  a  lost  opportunity  would  close  forever 
over  his  drowned  head.  Thus  was  Hill  placed;  and  his 
fate  was  in  the  hands  of  Croker. 

There  were  those  of  power  in  Tammany  who  advised 
against  him;  they  wanted  none  of  Hill.  Croker  stood 
alone;  yet  he  had  his  will.  Croker  decided  for  Hill, 
and  Hill  it  was.  Both  the  records  of  the  convention, 
as  well  as  the  count  of  ballots  at  the  polls,  display  that 
Hill  became  Governor  because  of  Croker's  support. 
There  is  some  shimmer  of  a  thought,  too,  that  Gorman, 
then  in  the  Senate  from  Maryland,  late  manager  of 
the  Cleveland  campaign,  close  friend  of  Croker,  and 
with  his  own  plans  of  a  White  House  residence  for 


290  RICHARD  CROKER. 

himself,  had  somewhat  to  do  with  Croker's  choice  of 
Hill.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  lapse  and  changes  of 
time  have  rendered  the  event  more  curious  than  im- 
portant. 

Hill  studied  for  politics  as  some  study  for  orders  in  a 
church.  His  school  was  hard  as  emerald  in  its  lesson- 
list.  It  taught  the  art  of  alliance,  the  science  of  com- 
bination; and  it  overlooked  the  humanities  of  politics. 
No  inference  of  money-badness  should  adhere  to  Hill. 
No  one,  whether  friend  or  closest  foe,  in  maddest 
flights,  ever  fancied  Hill  in  any  dubious  connection 
with  a  dollar. 

Hill  is  unpleasant  to  the  eye;  more  unpleasant  when 
come  in  contact  with.  His  atmosphere  is  bright  but 
cold,  as  if  the  sun  glanced  on  an  ice  field.  Nor  are  his 
manners  of  the  school  which  charms;  he  has  no  polish. 
Force  seldom  means  polish;  and  Hill  is  force.  Hill  is 
not  a  general,  he's  an  overseer;  he  never  leads,  he 
drives.  He  commands,  true;  but  always  from  the 
rear.  It  is  not  cowardice;  Hill  feels  the  necessity  of 
making  his  people  fight  beneath  sweep  of  eye. 

This  last  is  because  of  Hill's  strong  instinct  of  lone- 
liness. Hill  knows  he  has  no  friend.  He  has  allies, 
has  confederates;  they  are  such  to-day  and  foes  to-mor- 
row; but  Hill  is  never  loved.  No  one  will  sacrifice  for 
Hill;  none  die  for  him.  Hill  is  no  Napoleon  to  inspire 
affection  in  those  who  come  about  him.  At  the  best, 
Hill  is  but  a  guerrilla  of  party — some  Quantrell  of 
politics. 

Hill  is  honest  with  his  adherents.  Let  them  but 
conquer;  each  shall  take  his  share  of  booty.  The 
scales  of  distribution  are  held  justly  in  the  hands  of 
Hill.  One  of  Hill's  tenets  is  "spoils."  And  in  this 


THE  SPOILS  SYSTEM.  291 

applause  of  the  spoils  system,  Hill  is  sincere.  He  is 
not  like  Cleveland;  to  beg  for  men's  aid,  to  turn  his 
back  on  them  in  victory.  Hill,  while  places  last,  gives 
to  his  followers  without  stint.  Whatever  is  conquered, 
whatever  comes  as  captive  of  his  sword,  is  apportioned 
among  them. 

Hill  had  such  training  as  the  hard  class-room  of  his 
time  could  give  him.  He  was  taught  that  no  flower 
of  sentiment  swayed  its  perfumed  head  in  politics.  He 
learned  to  face  his  foe  hardily,  fight  grimly  to  the  end, 
and,  if  needs  must,  die  in  silence — mute  as  fox  among 
the  hounds.  When  he  won,  he  was  to  take  everything 
that  might  strengthen  himself  or  comfort  his  people. 

Mentally,  Hill  is  rough  and  rugged;  he  looks  a  fact 
in  the  face.  His  plans  run  ever  and  always  to  a  fight. 
This  is  in  contrast  to  Gorman.  That  statesman  seeks 
to  attain  the  object  direct.  Hill  plans  to  a  fight;  if 
he  wins  the  fight,  he  gains  the  object. 

Yet  Hill  is,  after  all,  the  creature  of  his  contracted 
school.  He  is  essentially  a  State  politician.  His  poli- 
cies are  not  national.  Through  every  method  the 
ward-lines  show  too  plainly.  And  with  this  weakness  of 
the  provincial,  Hill  couples  a  lamentable  failure  to 
know  men.  He  would  quit  his  seat  in  the  Senate,  re- 
pair to  O'Ferrall's  committee  room  in  the  House,  to 
bully  that  Virginian  against  his  conscience  in  the 
Rockwell  contest  case.  Hill  had  not  met  O'Ferrall; 
didn't  know  whether  he  were  hazel  or  oak,  craven  or 
brave,  a  priest  of  peace  or  some  fray-fed  berserk.  And 
yet  in  this  darkness  as  to  the  character  of  him  he  was 
to  meet,  with  a  full-blown  Presidential  hope  to  risk, 
Hill  went.  It  was  a  move  that  many  a  born  fool  would 
have  known  enough  to  avoid  engaging  himself  about. 


292  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Hill  had  sorrow  and  pain  as  his  guerdon.  O'Ferrall 
denounced  and  defied  him;  he  promised  him,  had  the 
interview  befallen  but  five  years  before  when  the 
O'Ferrall  blood  was  quicker,  that  he,  O'Ferrall,  would 
have  threshed  him  like  a  shock  of  grain. 

Had  Hill  been  nationally  wise,  in  the  height  of  his 
White  House  Teachings  of  1892,  he  would  not  have 
gone  southward  on  a  special  car  to  upbuild  fences. 
He  could  have  done  nothing  to  sooner  fire  a  Southern 
distrust  of  him,  nor  breed  against  him  a  Southern 
opposition. 

Hill  in  person  is  well  fashioned.  He  is  of  height; 
of  good  breadth  of  shoulder.  One  gets  the  impression 
of  physical  strength  from  Hill;  almost  of  physical 
ferocity.  With  black  eyes  and  black  hair — what  fringe 
there  is  to  hold  its  desperate  ground  behind  his  ears — 
and  black  coat,  Hill  offers  a  somber  effect.  And,  with  a 
face  pale  to  sallowness,  finishing  below  on  a  shirtfront 
of  dead  white,  this  somberness  becomes  sinister. 
These,  added  to  a  lawlessness  of  soul  which  lurks  in 
the  man,  confer  an  outlaw  atmosphere  that  repels. 
What  is  most  admirable  in  Hill  is  his  forensic  courage; 
what  most  wonderful  is  his  intellect.  He  thinks  with 
the  openness  of  noon.  Yet,  his  mind  is  of  the  earth. 
It  spreads  no  wings  of  fancy.  Hill  will  never  soar; 
never  move  one's  soul  with  eloquence,  nor  write  a 
poem. 

Despite  his  black  hair  and  bilious  skin,  when  one  has 
studied  Hill,  it  will  claim  one  as  a  thought  that  there 
is  much  of  the  old  Dane  about  him.  What  a  viking 
he  would  have  made!  How  he  would  have  worshiped 
Thor,  held  his  horse  festivals,  and  drunk  from  the 
skull  of  his  enemy!  This  Norse  thought  may  come 


A  MENTAL  PANTHER.  293 

from  the  fact  that  Hill  is  destructive  rather  than  con- 
structive in  his  talents.  Destruction  is  an  easy  work; 
a  laborer  of  roughest  sort  can  throw  down  more 
masonry  than  two  hundred  skilled  workmen  in  equal 
time  can  rear.  But  destruction  is  none  the  less 
majestic  and  engaging.  Also  there  is  something  in- 
nately popular  in  destruction;  it  tends  to  equalization. 
While  Hill's  intellect  dwells  on  the  ground,  it  is 
ever  swift  and  darting.  It  proceeds  with  the  accurate 
power  of  a  panther.  Hill  springs  on  conclusion,  and 
is  seldom  wrong.  Hill  for  selfish  cause  goes  often 
against  his  beliefs.  Within  himself,  in  1896,  Hill  was 
for  Silver;  for  an  income  tax — that  measure  he  fought 
so  long  and  jealously.  He  was  brought  in  opposition 
to  these  by  stress  of  money-folk.  One  knows  not  the 
bond  between  them;  one  does  know  that  the  men-of- 
money  have  many  times  controlled  the  direction, 
though  not  the  detail,  of  Hill's  course.  It  was  not 
money  in  the  coarser  sense;  Hill  is  not  a  money-lover. 
Money  for  money's  single  sake  is  secondary.  He  seeks 
it,  spends  it  as  incident  to  life;  and  that  is  all.  He 
neither  keeps  nor  cares  for  money.  And  yet  it  is 
Money  that  guides  Hill.  And  it  has  more  often  than 
once  carried  him  into  the  wastes  of  political  mistake. 
Napoleon  conceded  that  Providence  took  a  part  in 
battle,  and  determined  its  close.  But  Napoleon  added 
that  Providence  fought  ever  for  those  who  owned  the 
heaviest  artillery.  Hill  may  remember  Napoleon  in 
his  strifes  of  politics.  Avoiding  a  trap  of  what  seems 
temporary  success,  Hill,  doubtless,  clings  to  that  flag 
with  money  in  the  belief,  long  run  or  short  run,  that 
Providence  fights  ultimately  for  that  party  which  has 
the  heaviest  bank  accounts.  But  Hill  trips  himself  with 


294  RICHARD  CROKER. 

error.  In  his  never-ending  arrangement  of  the  present 
to  bring  a  future  personal  advantage,  Hill  makes  mis- 
takes. There  have  been  too  many  of  these.  Hill's 
end  is  on  its  way.  It  will  come,  and  none  will  mourn 
him;  his  funeral  will  be  as  lonesome  as  his  life. 

In  politics  Hill  is  sincere  without  being  bravely 
honest  in  the  honest  sense.  That  is  the  Hill  flaw. 
Hill's  conception  of  men  is  artificial;  he  deems  each  an 
office-hunter.  He  cannot  be  taught  of  that  army  of 
folk  who  neither  hope  nor  hunt  for  place,  and  the 
sole  purpose  of  whose  voting  is  to  promote  right 
government  among  men.  The  great  world — however 
unsteadily — aims  at  good  government;  Hill  aims  at 
power  through  the  holding  of  high  office.  With  each, 
politics  is  a  method;  but  the  object  sought  is  not  the 
same.  And  Hill  cannot  understand  that  probity  of 
motive  on  the  world's  part  which  does  not  exist  with 
himself.  And  so  he  falls  wrong;  and  thus  he  ever  plays 
and  makes  his  game  too  fine.  That  is  the  truth  at  the 
bottom  of  the  troubled  well  of  Hill.  He  does  not 
know  mankind;  doesn't  apprehend  the  race  in  its  sim- 
plicity. And  so  Hill  fails  to  be  with  the  general  march; 
he  turns  ever  wrong  to  perish  in  some  wilderness  of 
neglect  and  lack  of  confidence. 

Hill  has  no  true  idea  of  a  popularity.  One  may 
know  this  by  his  wifeless  state.  Folk  will  not  trust 
your  bachelor  publicist.  Politics  is  with  the  mass  the 
merest  condition  of  sentiment  and  the  approval  of  a 
personality.  .Folk  talk  of  the  issue,  but  they  vote  for 
the  man.  And  as  a  first  concession  to  sentiment,  they 
demand  that  he  to  whom  they  trust  great  office  come 
with  the  indorsement  of  some  woman  who  loves 
and  clings  to  him.  The  bachelor  at  fifty  is  a  political 


THE  POLITICAL  SUSPECT.  295 

suspect.  The  world  doubts  him,  declines  him, 'wagging 
its  sage  head.  It  loves  him  not.  Hill,  with  all  his 
sleight  for  caucus,  primary,  and  convention,  does  not 
know  these  merest  rudiments  of  his  art  of  votes.  No 
mate  has  borne  him  altarward.  He  has  suffered  for  it 
in  his  career.  Hill  has  aversion  to  women.  The 
Senate,  while  he  was  there,  was  guarded  by  his  order 
to  bring  him  in  no  word  from  them.  He  would  not 
meet  with  women,  would  not  talk  with  them.  At  the 
most,  they  might  see  him  by  proxy;  they  might  send  a 
man. 

While  Hill  is  in  retreat  before  woman — not  the 
amiable  rout  of  one  bashful,  but  the  retreat  that 
skulks  backward,  shows  its  teeth  and  bristles — he  will 
face  men  like  a  lion.  And  he  is  frank  to  talk.  He 
has  no  confidants;  none  dwell  so  near  him  as  that;  but 
he  will  talk  with  a  fierce  indifference  as  to  what  he 
says  that  borders  on  the  reckless.  He  comes  readily 
to  his  portal  at  any  summons,  does  Hill. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asks  Hill. 

Propound;  and  he  replies  with  directness,  where 
others,  who  assume  a  freer  air,  double  and  deceive. 

Hill  is  apt  to  speak  the  truth.  Not  from  aught  of 
moral  thought;  but  at  the  worst  he  prefers  to  tell  the 
truth  and  fight.  His  political  courage  is  of  proof.  He 
will  cast  his  glove  in  the  face  of  triple  o'dds. 

"  Hill " — said  the  late  Senator  Coke,  with  his  queer 
lisp  and  a  look  of  sober  ingenuousness — "  Hill  is  a  won- 
derful man.  He's  bigger  than  we  thought  when  he 
first  came  to  the  Senate.  And  he'll  not  only  fight,  but 
by  nature  he's  a  desperado.  If  Hill  had  been  brought 
up  in  Texas,  I  reckon  he'd  'a'  killed  a  dozen  men  by 
now." 


296  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Coke  was  in  earnest,  and  Coke  was  right.  One 
might  observe  Hill  from  the  Senate  gallery.  A  love 
and  lust  for  combat  laired  in  the  heart  of  Hill. 
He  would  engage  with  careless  liberality  against  Harris 
and  Morgan  and  Mills.  As  if  the  odds  were  still 
unequal  to  his  thirst  for  rough  collision,  Hill  would 
abruptly  turn  and  with  harshest  taunt  enroll  Gray 
among  his  adversaries.  And,  more  marvelous,  Hill 
would  quarrel  this  quartette  to  a  standstill;  absolutely 
defeat  them  into  silence. 

It  was  these  Senate  joustings  against  numbers  that 
told  much.  One  cannot  drive  Hill  from  a  subject.  He'll 
no  more  take  his  eyes  off  the  casus  belli  than  will  a 
gazehound  off  the  hare  he  follows.  Hill  sticks  to  the 
business  at  bay.  The  war  itself  may  wander,  the  battle 
stagger  to  new  fields;  Hill  will  not  lose  sight  of  the 
issue,  nor  forget  what  called  him  to  his  arms.  If  a 
moveless  courage  could  always  attain  the  subject  con- 
tended for,  peace  would  ever  discover  Hill  in  its 
possession.  Hill's  assaults  forensic  have  no  furtivities 
of  execution.  He  slays  his  rival  directly  in  hot  blood; 
carries  forward  his  slaughter  with  all  the  noise  and  din 
which  belong  to  it. 

By  nature  Hill  is  a  knife-fighter.  The  courage  of  a 
race  may  be  read  in  the  length  of  its  weapons.  And 
what  is  true  of  races  is  as  true  of  men.  The  Koman 
short  sword  and  the  American  bowie  knife  mark  the 
highest  type  of  fighting  courage.  He  who  wields  either 
looks  to  go  close  in  and  expects  to  come  back  covered 
with  blood.  He  considers  not  his  own  safety  so  much 
as  the  destruction  of  his  enemy.  And  such  is  Hill. 
When  he  debates,  he  makes  curious  figure-eight  move- 
ments, with  his  extended  right  hand.  These  are  the 


ARTHUR  PUE   GORMAN.  297 

veriest  fence  of  the  bowie  knife.  As  Hill  scores  a 
point,  he  thrusts  his  hand  straight  forward  like  the 
head  of  a  rattlesnake.  It  is  at  such  times  he  pierces 
his  opponent.  But  Hill  has  an  integrity  in  his  ferocity. 
He  is  Anglo-Dane,  for  all  his  hair  and  eyes.  He  makes 
no  ambushments;  he  poisons  no  water-holes;  sets  no 
traps  nor  snap-haunches. 

Hill  does  now  and  then  the  unaccountable.  He  will 
wage  a  ten-year  war  with  Cleveland,  and  next,  for  no 
reason  one  may  wot  of,  Hill  goes  to  a  White  House 
dinner,  and  then  submits  to  subsequent  Senate  stulti- 
fication by  defending  the  worst  measures  of  the  Ad- 
ministration. Hill  is  not  always  to  be  understood.  He 
has  courage,  he  has  wisdom;  moreover,  he  is  the  man 
practical  and  lives  unhampered  of  a  past.  Tradition 
is  nothing  to  him,  precedent  but  dust.  He  has  no 
reverence,  he  is  not  cautious,  and  he'll  clash  with  one 
or  all  who,  for  love  or  heavier  cause,  would  take  to  the 
lists  with  him.  And  yet,  with  so  much  that  is  excellent 
as  against  the  little  that  is  not,  Hill  is  not  beloved  of 
men.  They  who  follow  him  gain  no  sense  of  loyalty 
to  Hill.  And  it  was  written,  for  these  reasons  of  no 
love,  that  Hill  must  fall.  He  will  come  finally  to  be  a 
lone  hermit  of  politics,  a  beggar-man  of  party,  telling 
his  beads  in  unanswered  prayers  for  power.  And  none 
will  visit  while  he  lives  his  cell,  nor  when  he  dies  his 
shrine. 

Gorman  is  a  different  picture.  With  his  monk's  face, 
his  repose,  his  quiet  eyes,  his  chaste  dignity,  Gorman 
fills  the  vision  pleasantly  enough.  Nowhere  in  appear- 
ance does  Gorman  jar  on  one.  Physically  he  is  neither 
big  nor  little;  mentally  he  is  much  the  same.  Politics 
with  Gorman  is  an  accident  and  not  a  creed.  He  is  a 


298  RICHARD  CROKER. 

good  thinker  in  a  way  of  egotism;  with  himself  at  stake, 
his  impulse  acts  powerfully  as  auxiliary  to  his  reason. 
In  temper  Gorman  is  timid  and  shy.  But,  ambitious 
as  a  Bonaparte  and  as  egotistical,  his  purpose  is  often 
elevated  and  the  game  he  hunts  is  big.  Wherefore, 
much  that  he  does  seems  daring.  What  one  takes  to  be 
daring,  however,  is  naught  save  the  expression  of  a 
hunger  to  have,  which,  now  and  then,  overrunning 
itself,  carries  him  into  peril. 

Gorman  has  tact,  is  diplomatic — an  apostle  of  the 
indirect.  He  is  as  crafty  as  a  coyote  and  as  lurking. 
And  like  your  coyote  he  never  faces  danger.  As  far 
and  as  fast  as  he  may,  he  flies.  If  overtaken  or  cor- 
nered, he  will  snap.  And  his  jaws  cut  like  razors.  But 
even  this  snapping  is  defensive  and  ceases  the  moment 
the  pressure  is  removed.  There  is  the  sharpest  of 
antithesis  between  Gorman  and  Hill.  Where  Hill  has 
valor,  Gorman  has  strategy;  where  Hill  is  Dane,  Gor- 
man is  Hindoo;  where  Hill  becomes  berserk,  Gorman 
turns  Borgia,  empoisons  a  bunch  of  forget-me-not  and 
sends  it  to  his  enemy  with  a  love-note  full  of  heart- 
regard  and  warmth.  If  it  were  the  old  days  in  Rome, 
and  Gorman  and  Hill  were  made  to  fight  in  the  arena, 
Hill  would  pick  up  the  buckler  and  the  short  sword. 
Nor  would  he  lay  emphasis  on  the  buckler;  it  would 
hang  on  his  left  arm  more  as  a  matter  of  form.  Gor- 
man would  take  net  and  trident,  crouch  as  he  faced 
his  foe,  and  attack  retreating.  Gorman,  as  written 
before,  is  the  Hindoo.  And  just  as  the  Hindoo  with 
his  crafts,  his  opiums,  his  hypnotisms,  his  cords  of 
silk,  and  his  assassin's  creese  as  crooked  as  his  tongue, 
is  more  to  be  feared  than  some  bugle-blowing  cham- 
pion who  makes  tenderly  sure  the  enemy  is  wide-awake 


STATUE  OF  ST.  TAMMANY,  FROM  THE  FACADE  OF  TAMMANY  HALL. 


GORMAN'S  BEGINNING.  299 

and  in  array,  so  is  Gorman  more  dangerous  than 
Hill. 

Where  does  Gorman  get  this  trick  to  set  snares  and 
dig  pits  and  hide  when  he  hears  one  coming?  It  is  due 
in  part  to  an  environment,  in  part  to  breed.  Gorman's 
father  was  a  Peter  Gorman.  The  elder  Gorman  had 
fame  about  the  lobbies  of  congresses  long  dead. 
When  Gorman  was  twelve,  his  father,  who  was  of  the 
Eepublicans, — for  with  him,  as  with  the  present  Gor- 
man, politics  came  to  be  merely  a  lane  to  a  field  which 
one  meant  to  sow  and  reap, — put  him  page  to  the 
Senate.  For  seventeen  years,  enrolled  in  posts  ranging 
from  page  to  postmaster,  Gorman  obeyed  the  Senate 
and  did  its  errands. 

In  a  day  which  stewed  in  its  own  corruption,  and 
among  men  many  of  whom  esteemed  chicane,  subter- 
fuge, and  direct  mendacity  as  virtues  beyond  price, 
Gorman  passed  his  boyhood.  At  an  age  when  character 
is  formed,  and  the  lessons  of  one's  life  are  taught  and 
learned,  Gorman  had  every  day  to  fly  and  hide  and 
supple  himself  to  be  preserved.  No  matter  the  op- 
pression, all  the  boy  Gorman  could  do  was  run.  Kun 
and  keep  running.  Eun  from  the  shadow  as  well  as 
the  substance;  from  the  true  as  well  as  the  false;  from 
the  right  as  from  the  wrong — run  from  everything. 
And  if  pursued  and  overtaken,  stave  off  execution  until 
opportunity  opened  to  run  again.  That  was  the  boyish 
destiny  of  Gorman;  the  destiny  of  a  daily  fugitive.  Is 
it  wonder  that  he  came  from  such  school  with  less 
courage  than  craft,  and  less  conscience  than  courage? 

Gorman  has  no  profession,  no  trade,  and  some  edu- 
cation. His  calling  is  politics,  his  purpose  to  hold 
office,  his  object  to  be  rich.  He  has  had  success.  He 


300  RICHARD   CROKER. 

was  Senator  from  Maryland,  and  ke  is  worth  two 
millions  of  dollars.  Gorman  made  politics  pay. 

That  Gorman  has  his  ways  of  power  is  shown  by  his 
passing  a  tariff  measure  and  making  it  law  in  the  teeth 
of  the  House  and  the  White  House.  He  made  the 
Wilson-Gorman  tariff  with  a  majority  of  one.  He 
had  three  by  count;  but  he  began  by  thrusting  Hill — 
once  his  tool,  then  inveterate  with  mutiny  against  him 
— overboard.  Gorman  debarred  Hill  even  from  the 
party  caucus.  That  he  is  master  of  a  wool-foot  cun- 
ning appears  from  his  winning  the  tariff  without  noise, 
or  fury,  or  the  disclosure  of  his  own  convictions  on 
that  point  of  cardinal  politics.  No  one  knows,  nor 
does  his  record  show,  whether  Gorman  is  for  pro- 
tection, a  tariff  for  revenue,  or  free  trade.  Also,  Hill 
and  a  dozen  others  nearly  burned  themselves  alive 
trying  to  smoke  Gorman  out. 

That  Gorman  will  snap  when  cornered  was  indicated 
in  his  Senate  speech  assailing  Cleveland.  And  that  he 
lacks  a  common  courage  is  told  when  he  talks  with 
Cleveland  for  half  an  hour  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
the  speech  is  delivered,  and  does  not  mention  its  ap- 
proach to  that  President  most  interested. 

Before  he  came  to  the  Senate  Gorman  was  limited 
to  Maryland.  Until  his  Senate  promotion  he  had 
busied  himself,  vine-like,  in  overcreeping  the  Maryland 
Democracy,  and  succeeded  in  covering  it,  trunk 
and  bough  and  smallest  twig.  Gorman  was  not  de- 
lightful to  the  aristocracy  of  Maryland — the  Carrolls, 
the  Worthingtons,  and  the  Pinckney-Whytes.  But  their 
systems  were  antique,  Gorman's  modern.  He  used 
telephones,  telegraphs,  and  steam;  they  plodded 
with  the  old-fashioned  school  of  horseback,  saddle- 


A  MARYLAND  MONARCH.  301 

bag  politics.  And  Gorman  defeated  them,  walked  over 
them,  and  was  monarch  of  Maryland.  Then  he 
came  to  the  Senate.  And  then  it  was  he  resolved 
in  silence  to  become  President.  From  that  hour 
when  he  took  his  oath  as  Senator  back  in  the  late 
seventies,  he  held  a  White  House  in  his  eye. 

As  Gorman  stood  in  the  Senate  he  burned  secretly 
to  become  national  in  repute.  But  wary,  careful,  a 
soul  of  shadows  and  concealments,  he  said  nothing 
and  abode  his  time.  It  came  when,  with  Garfield's 
election  to  the  Presidency,  the  fortunes  of  the  Senate 
Democracy  were  made  to  tremble.  Cameron  nego- 
tiated a  treaty  with  Mahone.  The  latter  was  to  bring 
the  Republicans  his  vote  towards  Senate  reorganiza- 
tion. The  Senate  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Democrats. 
Mahone,  for  a  reorganization,  was  to  be  with  the  Re- 
publicans; and  for  that  work  Mahone  was  to  name 
Riddleberger,  afterwards  a  Senator,  to  be  sergeant- 
at-arms.  Conkling  would  lead  the  Republicans  in  their 
struggle  for  possession. 

And  save  for  Gorman  the  Republicans  would  have 
conquered.  With  Mahone  voting  with  Conkling  the 
Senate  would  stand  tie  between  the  parties.  Conkling 
and  Cameron  relied  on  Arthur  as  President  of  the  Sen- 
ate to  cast  the  vote  of  decision.  It  was  Gorman  who  re- 
solved on  objection.  The  other  Democratic  Senators 
were  disposed  to  let  the  day  go  by  default.  Gorman 
urged  that  Arthur,  as  President  of  the  Senate,  could 
vote  only  where  tie  occurred  on  a  legislative  question; 
that  he  could  not  interpose  where  the  question  was 
one  of  Senate  organization.  Gorman,  then  young  as  a 
Senator,  submitted  this  view  to  leading  Democrats. 
They  saw  nothing  in  it.  He  took  it  to  Ben  Hill.  The 


302  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Georgian  encouraged  the  Maryland  Beaconsfield. 
They  arranged  to  oppose  Conkling  and  Cameron. 

Then  began  a  conflict  which,  lasting  several  weeks, 
was  terminated  by  the  resignations  of  Conkling  and 
Platt  as  result  of  quarrel  with  Garfield.  This  double 
stepping  down  and  out  left  the  Senate  Kepublicans 
hamstrung;  they  crippled  down  at  once  and  their  fight 
was  lost.  Gorman  gained  fame  in  this  melee;  he 
exulted  while  he  thought  of  it  as  a  step  towards  the 
Presidency. 

But  such  is  the  irony  of  life  that  this  triumph  of 
Gorman  was  to  have  much  to  do  in  promoting  that  one 
of  all  who  for  years  stood  in  Gorman's  path.  Over  in 
Buffalo,  Cleveland  as  Mayor  had  backed  ignorantly 
into  a  contest  for  the  right,  and  won.  John  Kelly  and 
Richard  Croker  reached  out  for  Buffalo's  Mayor,  then 
brilliant  with  advertisement,  as  a  candidate  for 
Governor.  Civil  contentions,  which  racked  the  Re- 
publicans as  corollary  of  the  Conkling-Garfield  trouble, 
weighed  in  for  Cleveland  to  a  degree  which  made  the 
majority  by  which  he  was  elected  over  Folger  seem 
almost  foolish.  And  at  this  point,  Cleveland,  Governor 
at  Albany,  and  Gorman,  with  his  new  laurels  in  the 
Senate,  began  to  make  one  another's  acquaintance. 

Gorman  feared  Cleveland  from  the  first.  None 
knew  sooner  than  Gorman  that  the  wave  which  bore 
Cleveland  into  Albany  would  land  him  high  as  the  next 
nominee  of  the  party  for  the  Presidency.  As  this  was 
secretly  the  Gorman  ambition,  it  is  not  hard  to  infer 
that  his  heart  did  not  yearn  over  Cleveland.  But  he 
dissembled,  gave  his  hope  a  recess,  and  with  a  sigh 
turned  in,  in  1884,  to  name  Cleveland,  and  by  victory 
or  defeat  dispose  of  him  and  dismiss  him  from  the 


ELAINE  AND  CLEVELAND.  303 

programmes  of  politics  as  soon  as  ever  it  might  be 
done. 

Cleveland  was  nominated  for  the  Presidency. 
Gorman,  who  had  fame  for  dexterity  in  practical  poli- 
tics,— with  the  face  of  a  prelate  and  the  heart  of  a 
privateersman, — was  put  in  front  of  the  forces  of  the 
party.  The  Republicans,  however,  were  not  disheart- 
ened by  the  Conkling-Garfield  dissensions  of  the  years 
before.  They  proposed  Elaine,  their  best  and  greatest, 
and  went  behind  their  guns  with  the  cool  valor  of 
buccaneers.  And  they  all  but  won. 

Elaine  lost  New  York — the  White  House  key  in 
1884 — by  fewer  than  two  thousand.  And  that  leader 
who  defeated  Elaine  was  Gorman.  The  Maryland  man- 
ager turned  the  currents  in  the  last  hours  of  the 
conflict.  He  saw  the  trouble;  he  called  on  Baltimore 
for  money;  he  got  it  to  a  sum  without  a  name. 
Thus  equipped,  Gorman  poured  that  balm  the  wounded 
hour  called  for  into  the  lower  wards  of  New  York  City; 
and  when  the  mists  of  doubt  were  blown  aside  success 
was  his.  Gorman  had  made  Cleveland  President. 

When  one  cannot  be  a  king,  one  should  be  a  War- 
wick. There  are  grace,  luster,  and  riches  in  the  part. 
If  one  cannot  be  the  throne,  be  the  power  behind  the 
throne.  Gorman,  after  victory,  made  no  doubt  of  his 
influence  with  Cleveland.  He  was  the  Scipio  who 
had  commanded  success;  he  had  fiddled  it  out  of  the 
fire;  he  was  entitled  to  a  White  House  latchkey.  It 
should  be  his  voice  in  the  closet,  his  whisper  on  the 
backstair. 

Gorman  craved  three  things.  And  they  were  denied. 
Cleveland  refused  Gorman;  and  was  so  roughly  plain, 
withal,  that  the  situation,  assenting  to  no  obligation, 


304  RICHARD  CROKER. 

admitted  of  no  hope.  Gorman  made  no  more  requests. 
True  to  his  education,  Gorman  was  patient  under  in- 
Bult,  meek  under  the  whip.  His  hates  did  not  foam; 
his  resentments  were  without  a  tongue.  When  friend 
or  flatterer  condoled,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  spread 
his  hands,  talked  benignantly  of  party  welfare,  and 
stood  as  model  for  the  Magnanimous.  He  foresaw 
that  Cleveland  would  be  renamed  in  1888,  and  as  far  as 
he  might,  and  wear  a  dignity,  he  assumed  to  favor  it. 
He  busied  himself  for  the  common  good. 

Cleveland  was  candidate  a  second  time,  and  Gorman 
helped.  It  was  Gorman,  when  Silver  had  captured  the 
Committee  on  Eesolutions  at  St.  Louis,  and  the  Com- 
mittee's people  were  on  the  borders  of  a  report  de- 
claring for  "  Free  Silver,  Sixteen  to  One/'  who  sat 
quietly  down  and  talked  them  out  of  it.  Smooth  as 
honey,  suave  as  cream,  Gorman  laid  the  cold  finger  of 
his  policy  on  Silver's  adherents,  and  they  yielded. 
They  would  have  rebelled  against  one  less  softly  deft. 
Gorman  purred  them  to  a  standstill;  it  was  Mesmer  in 
politics. 

Cleveland  and  defeat  agreed  in  1888.  Long  before, 
however,  Gorman  had  begun  to  construct  Hill.  Not 
for  the  good  of  that  vigorous  person,  but  for  Gorman's. 
He  proposed  to  take  New  York  from  Cleveland  with 
Hill.  He  worked  on  Hill  and  builded  him,  brick  by 
brick.  Hill  was  not  strong  with  Tammany,  he  had 
cheated  Croker  and  the  organization;  there  was  no 
pipe-line  of  concord  or  confidence  between  them; 
nothing  but  dislike.  Gorman,  on  the  other  hand,  while 
running  the  first  Cleveland  campaign,  gained  a  hold 
with  Tammany  and  Croker  which  few  could  master. 
Gorman  made  Hill  believe  that  he  was  to  follow  Cleve- 


GORMAN'S  STALKING  HORSE.  305 

land  in  the  White  House.  There  was  no  moment  when 
Gorman  planned  anything  of  the  kind.  Gorman  pri- 
vately proposed  himself  for  the  White  House;  Hill  was 
to  be  his  stalking  horse. 

After  the  defeat  of  the  party  in  1888,  Gorman  be- 
gan collecting  power.  The  Force  Bill  came  along  to 
give  him  a  lift.  The  mad  Republicans  all  but  made  his 
fortunes  with  that  measure  of  black  sin.  Gorman,  fol- 
lowing 1888,  saw  that  Cleveland  was  as  feverishly 
for  a  third  nomination  as  he  had  been  for  a  first  and 
second.  At  this,  he  went  in  with  Hill  more  deeply; 
he  double-moored  New  York  to  their  ambitions,  bow 
and  stern;  he  did  not  leave  Cleveland  so  much 
as  a  cobweb  of  influence  with  the  party  in  his  own 
State. 

To  have  Hill  more  at  his  whisper  and  beneath  his 
eye,  it  was  Gorman  who  told  Hill  to  come  to  the 
Senate.  From  1888  to  1892  it  was  Gorman,  not  Hill 
nor  Cleveland,  who  was  potent  with  the  New  York 
City  Democracy.  It  was  Gorman  who  invented  "  snap- 
perism  "  ;  not  Hill.  There  was  the  Eichelieu!  "  Snap- 
perism"  would  defeat  Cleveland  of  his  State's  dele- 
gation, while  it  destroyed  Hill  with  the  country  at 
large.  Two  birds,  one  stone! 

Propagating  power  wherever  chance  opened  a  way, 
it  was  Gorman  who  made  Crisp  Speaker  in  1891.  Mills 
was  the  Cleveland  selection.  Gorman  brought  Hill, 
Tammany,  Maryland — every  factor  he  could  call  his 
own — to  the  help  of  Crisp.  Gorman  made  Crisp 
Speaker  just  as  in  1884  he  had  made  Cleveland  Presi- 
dent. Is  it  not  strange  that  Gorman  can  so  triumph 
for  others  and  so  fail  for  himself?  It  is  because  Gor- 
mad  has  perfect  courage  where  another  takes  the  risk. 


306  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

It  is  when  he  must  hazard  personally  the  pain  and 
shock  of  downfall  that  Gorman  wavers.  It  is  when 
he  must  go  in  person  with  the  rush,  and  chance  lance- 
thrust  and  saber-work,  that  his  lips  whiten,  his  eye 
falters,  and  his  heart  faints.  It  is  then  that  he  hasn't 
that  sandstone  courage  to  call  down  the  last  grand 
general  charge  required  by  success. 

There  was  a  ludicrous  incident  which  happened 
during  Gorman's  plotting  for  a  Presidency.  His  tac- 
tics— and  they  were  native  with  him — were  to  make 
the  nomination  seem  to  "  seek  "  him.  He  would  not 
confess  himself  a  candidate.  The  Senate  was  a  Gor- 
man hotbed;  Hill  had  no  adherents  there. 

But  a  change  was  about  to  be  forced  on  Gorman. 
Brice,  Morgan,  Cockrell,  Pugh,  Vest,  and  others  of  sim- 
ilar pinion,  all  for  Gorman,  all  inveighing  against  Cleve- 
land, demanded  that  Gorman  be  announced  and  appear 
obviously  a  candidate.  They  insisted  that  he  openly 
accept  the  situation.  They  argued  that  Hill  could 
not  withstand  Cleveland  in  the  country,  while  Gorman 
could.  But  they  needed  the  Gorman  consent  as  well 
as  the  Gorman  name.  With  the  mass  of  Senate  Dem- 
ocrats the  cry  was:  "Anything  to  beat  Cleveland!" 
They  compelled  Gorman's  acquiescence.  To  save  his 
sensibilities  they  arranged  to  "  force "  a  candidacy 
upon  him;  they  would  shove  him  from  shore  against 
his  will. 

It  was  a  well-known  orator  of  the  middle  West  who 
was  to  launph  the  Gorman  boom.  He  was  not  of  the 
Senate.  Gorman  was  to  give  a  dinner  in  honor  of  this 
orator.  His  Senate  supporters  would  be  present.  There 
was  to  be  none  not  a  Senator,  save  the  guest  of  honor 
— who  was  to  declare  for  Gorman  in  an  impassioned 


A  GORMAtf  DINNm.  30? 

speech,  to  which  others  would  offer  oratorical  addenda 
full  of  fire — Crisp  of  Georgia  and  the  Speakership, 
and  Compton  of  Maryland. 

It  was  a  splendid  conception,  with  a  dinner  and  a 
possible  President  in  it.  On  the  evening  arranged  the 
guests  drew  together  full  of  appetite  and  hope;  that 
is,  all  except  the  guest  of  honor.  He  was  missing,  and 
his  absence  spread  a  chill.  The  others  waited;  at  last 
they  sat  down  without  him.  As  they  battened  gloomily 
and  silently,  a  carriage  drove  to  the  Gorman  gate.  No 
one  got  out.  A  search  party — a  fashion  of  steering 
committee — developed  the  guest  of  honor  inside,  in  a 
state  of  abstraction.  The  guest  of  honor  was  brought 
forth  and  filed  away  on  a  sofa.  The  banquet  proceeded 
drearily.  No  one  volunteered  to  make  the  speech  of 
the  unconscious  one;  no  one  demanded  Gorman  as  a 
candidate;  no  Presidential  plausibilities  were  un- 
packed. 

While  Gorman  was  chagrined  at  this  outcome  of  a 
feast  from  which  so  much  had  been  hoped,  his  sly 
spirit  felt,  with  it  all,  not  a  little  relieved.  In  silence 
he  could  now  go  forward  with  his  sapping  and  his  min- 
ing and  his  tunneling  and  his  Hill  pretenses;  and  that 
was  more  to  his  taste.  Gorman  multiplied  his  efforts 
to  clutch  the  nomination.  He  persistently  refused, 
however,  to  become  an  open  candidate  for  convention 
favor;  he  never  failed,  to  the  public,  to  deny  his  ambi- 
tions in  that  behalf.  Hunting  it  as  game  never  was 
hunted  before,  Gorman  still  sought  to  preserve  the 
appearance  of  a  nomination  hunting  him. 

Gorman  went  to  the  Chicago  convention  of  1892,  a 
full-fledged  candidate,  but  undeclared.  Hill's  coming 
defeat  was  already  apparent.  Gorman's  friends  took 


308  RICHARD  CROKER. 

with  them  twenty  thousand  Gorman  badges,  silk  and 
gold,  great  and  little.  These  were  to  be  flaunted  op- 
portunely and  explode  enthusiasm.  They  were 
drowned  in  Lake  Michigan,  and  never  got  out  of  their 
boxes. 

"  If  the  New  York  delegation,"  said  Richard  Croker, 
"could  have  gotten  away  from  its  instructions  and 
dropped  Hill,  we  would  have  beaten  Cleveland  and 
named  Gorman.  But  Hill  insisted  on  the  delegation 
wasting  itself  on  him.  It  was  Hill  who  nominated 
Cleveland." 

Whitney,  as  cunning  as  a  Mazarin,  was  there  for 
Cleveland;  and  the  wide-flung  sentiment  of  the  country 
was  for  him.  This  unfortunate  popular  last  fact  be- 
came patent  more  and  more.  Someone  suggested  a 
quiet  "count  of  delegates."  This  was  three  days  be- 
fore the  convention  came  together.  Each  State  head- 
quarters was  visited.  There  was  a  covert,  but 
thorough,  poll.  It  disclosed  that  Cleveland  did  not 
have  the  imperative  two-thirds;  and  that  Gorman  was 
stronger  than  Hill.  And  still  the  cry  was,  "  Anything 
to  beat  Cleveland! " 

It  was  Gorman  who  broke.  Gorman,  losing  heart, 
made  his  decision  for  Cleveland.  But  in  its  first 
stage  Gorman  kept  his  Cleveland  mood  to  himself. 
Following  the  "  count,"  Gorman  disappeared.  No  one 
found  him  for  two  days.  On  convention  morning, 
Whitney — who  was  Reynard  the  Fox  for  that  conven- 
tion— was  out  in  an  interview,  saying  that  "  Gorman 
was  for  Cleveland,  always  had  been  for  Cleveland," 
and  expressing  amiable  contempt  for  dullards  who 
had  believed  anything  else.  Contemporaneously  Gor- 
man appeared  at  Whitney's  elbow,  pegging  away  for 


IS  G&SAT.  309 

the  ex-President.     Cleveland  was  named  on  the  first 
ballot,  with  Hill  sticking  to  the  end. 

Gorman,  in  his  way,  at  sightless  midnight  and  by  the 
left  hand,  is  great.  He  has  done  wonders  of  politics 
and  legislation  of  the  fog  and  spun-glass  kind.  How 
does  Gorman  work  these  marvels?  By  a  craft  like  unto 
that  of  Mephistopheles;  by  a  talent  for  diagonalism — a 
genius  of  the  indirect;  by  a  faultless  capacity  for  mak- 
ing one  believe  that  one's  own  best  interest  lies  the 
Gorman  way.  Gorman  is  weak  and  wonderful  at  once. 
Gorman  is  as  the  vampire  bat,  which,  wanting  strength 
and  courage  and  power  for  war,  still  inhabits  earth 
and  air  and  night  and  day,  sucking  gentle  blood  with 
safe  indiiference  from  lion  and  from  lamb  alike. 


XVIII. 

BRYAN   AND   A   PRESIDENCY. 

Be  brave  then  ; 

For  your  captain  is  brave,  and  vows  reformation. 
There  shall  be  in  England  seven  halfpenny  loaves  sold  for  a  penny. 
The  three-hooped  pot  shall  have  ten  hoops, 
And  I  will  make  it  felony  to  drink  small  beer, 

All  the  realm  shall  be  in  common,  and  in  Gheapside  shall  my  palfrey 
go  to  grass. 

—Jack  Cade. 

THERE  are  more  good  lives  lived  than  written,  com- 
plains* Carlyle  in  effect,  and  then  goes  forward  to  be- 
labor a  German  person  of  bad  luck  who  has  offended 
him  with  an  unhappy  biography  of  Jean  Paul  Richter. 
What  Carlyle  writes  is  highly  the  truth.  The  Scot 
might  have  pushed  forward  another  rood  or  two  and 
said  that,  compared  with  lives  as  lived,  no  good  life 
will  nor  ever  can  be  written.  What  is  here  set  forth 
is  not  in  defense  of  the  present,  which,  making  no 
pretense  to  a  granite  gravity,  is  a  study,  rather  than 
a  story,  of  Eichard  Croker.  But  to  take  up  again  the 
crabbed  line  laid  down  by  Carlyle:  It  does  not  conform 
with  the  possible  that  between  the  charged  and 
crowded  covers  of  a  book  aught  liberally  better  than 
glimpses  of  an  individual  is  to  be  obtained.  If  one's 
whole  true  life  were  printed  down,  with  all  one  felt 
and  meant  and  lost  and  won  and  did  and  failed  to  do, 
each  day  would  claim  a  volume  to  its  record.  Every 
sigh  would  own  its  paragraph,  every  tear  take  up  a 
chapter  in  its  telling. 

310 


JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER.  311 

Johnson  once  said,  in  an  earlier  day  of  that  worthy's 
siege  of  his  society,  that  did  he  believe  Boswell  in- 
tended to  write  his  Life,  he  would  assuredly  prevent 
the  outrage  by  taking  BoswelPs.  The  dour  Carlyle 
almost  laughs  at  this,  and  intimates  some  aid  to 
biographic  literature  had  great  men  acted  on  Johnson's 
epigram  and  butchered  their  historians  before  the  lat- 
ter got  to  work.  Carlyle  selected  his  own  Life-writer, 
and  gave  to  Froude,  in  advance  of  his  demise,  what- 
ever of  those  bricks  and  mortar  he  would  want  as  ma- 
terial for  his  building.  And  at  that,  it's  to  be  mis- 
doubted if  Carlyle  would  not  wring  his  hands  in  a 
very  protest  of  agony,  were  he  here  to  regard  and  pass 
upon  the  finished  work. 

In  his  assaults  on  the  criminal  German  aforesaid, 
assaults  which  were  to  be  the  excuse  for  himself  writ- 
ing a  sketch  of  Eichter,  Carlyle  set  forth  with  fine, 
though  inferential,  scorn  the  method  which  the 
caitiff  Rhinelander,  telling  of  Eichter,  pursued.  From 
some  Index  of  Great  Names  he  culled  the  date  of 
Eichter's  birth,  and  from  the  newspapers  fixed  his 
death.  Then  he  fought  through  ranks  and  double 
ranks  of  books,  and  clipped  unsparingly  each  para- 
graph which  carried  Eichter's  name  or  made  a  least  of 
reference  to  him.  These  were  then  jumbled  together 
in  a  hodgepodge  of  glomerate  confusion,  to  have  that 
place  in  literature  which  in  architecture  is  occupied  by 
Stonehenge.  The  German  has  no  notion  of  per- 
spective, and  grants  space  equal  and  alike  to  a  two- 
weeks'  jaunt  into  the  country  and  a  sickness  of  fifteen 
years.  Also,  he  is  abrupt  in  his  transitions,  and  in  a 
paragraph  confers  on  Eichter  a  wife  and  a  trio  of 
weans.  In  the  next,  or  nearly  the  next,  Richter  dies;  a 


312  RICHARD  CROKER. 

sentence  gapes  unexpectedly  beneath  him  like  a  trap 
door  in  the  "Vision  of  Mirza,"  and  Richter  is  gone. 
Only  for  the  moment,  however;  like  Harlequin  in  the 
pantomimes,  he  but  descends  beneath  the  stage  to  re- 
turn plungingly  through  a  clock-face  the  moment 
after.  Carlyle  does  not  like  this,  and  fingers  the  poor 
German  with  epithetical  severity. 

It  is  by  no  means  sure  that  the  scheme  followed  by 
the  German,  and  over  which  Carlyle  pouts  so  ran- 
corously,  would  not  produce  a  sterling  story  of  its 
man.  Once  I  looked  over  a  "Life  of  Jesus  Christ," 
constructed  by  Thomas  Jefferson  on  precisely  that 
plan  of  clip-and-paste.  It  was  made  of  excerpts  from 
the  literature  of  a  half  score  of  countries,  and  dis- 
played the  Galilean  in  English,  French,  German, 
Spanish,  Italian,  Russian,  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  and 
Arabic.  By  those  who  could  read  it,  the  word  was 
unanimous  that  this  mosaic  of  Jefferson's  offered  the 
best  biography  of  the  Saviour  yet  extant.  And  there 
wasn't  an  original  line  by  Jefferson. 

Carlyle  in  his  grumblings  is  not  to  be  minded  too 
much.  Carlyle  was  an  oak  tree  with  the  stomach  ache. 
There  was  something  innately  wrong  with  Carlyle  and 
his  machinery,  for  he  lived  to  be  eighty-six  and  still 
never  witnessed  a  day  pain-free  and  whole  in  its  hap- 
piness. His  capacity  for  gloomy  contradiction  appears 
in  his  daily  forebodes  of  nearing  death.  Ever  dying  in 
thought,  he  lives  on  and  on,  full  sixteen  years  beyond 
the  given  limit. 

And  Carlyle  might  have  been  more  cheerful.  Bi- 
ography, for  all  he  says,  becomes  better — or  has  during 
the  last  century — much  faster  than  the  individual. 
When  the  progress  of  humanity  is  considered,  it  does 


FOUR  HUNDRED   TEARS.  313 

not  impress  one  by  its  extent.  Steam?  and  telegraph? 
and  telephone?  say  you.  That  is  not  progress,  it's  dis- 
covery. Or  should  you  insist,  call  it  a  progress  of  the 
physical.  In  astronomy,  geology,  electricity,  mechan- 
ics, chemistry,  medicine — arenas  of  discovery  these — 
we  have  progressed.  But  on  the  moral-mental  side — the 
side  of  ethics  and  of  the  abstract — we  have  ever  been 
much  at  a  stop.  The  mental-moral  eye  is  dim;  the 
bodily  vision  keen;  daily  we  discern  more  and  still  more 
of  the  physical,  though  little,  if  any  more,  of  the 
psychical. 

How  long  is  it  since  man  first  tried  to  pick  the  lock 
of  futurity  and  make  purchase  of  the  tales  to  come? 
And  yet  after  centuries  of  peering,  spying,  and  fore- 
seeing, one  can't  certainly  foretell  one's  own  story  for 
those  sixty  seconds  next  beyond.  One  knows  no  more 
of  God,  nor  is  one  nearer  God,  than  were  those  other 
ones  an  age  of  eons  gone.  Is  the  finite  to  know  the 
Infinite,  and  is  a  foot-rule  to  measure  space?  And  our 
theology  is  not  more  sure  than  was  that  of  our  slant- 
skulled  forefather  who  went  clothed  of  a  sheepskin 
and  a  club,  ate  his  meat  raw,  and  saved  his  fire  to 
pray  to. 

Seize  on  the  last  four  hundred  years;  compare  the 
progress  of  the  physical  with  the  march- -if  march 
there  has  been,  and  not  a  stolid  squatting  on  its 
haunches — of  the  moral-mental.  Give  a  short  regard 
to  medicine,  an  ensample  of  the  physical,  and  measure 
its  oncomings. 

"  If  to-day  " — said  a  New  York  City  physician,  of 
abundant  patients  and  sufficient  fame — "if  to-day  I 
were  to  practice  my  profession  as  I  did  a  score  of  years 
ago,  I  would  be  jailed  for  malpractice.  And  a  score 


314  RICHARD  CROKER. 

of  years  ago  had  I  practiced  my  profession  as  I  do  to- 
day, I'd  have  been  jailed  for  malpractice.  So  much 
has  the  world  of  surgery  and  medicine  turned  over  in 
twenty  years." 

Consider  what  is  done  with  drugs,  and  temperatures, 
and  surgeons'  knives  and  needles  and  antiseptics. 
Compare  the  present  with  remedies  sovereign  in  the 
time  of  that  great  Galenist,  Gervase  Markham,  who 
was  in  his  pride  three  centuries  ago.  His  was  a  prac- 
tice wherein  folk  drank  sand  in  wine  for  dyspepsia 
and  called  it  ''pebble  posset."  The  Water  of  Life, 
which  if  one  took  "  he  might  walk  safely  from  danger 
by  the  leave  of  God,"  was  compounded  of  twenty-nine 
garden  herbs,  to  which  were  added  "  a  fleshy  running 
capon,  the  loins  and  legs  of  an  old  coney,  the  red 
flesh  of  the  sinews  of  a  leg  of  mutton,  four  young 
chickens,  twelve  larks,  the  yolks  of  twelve  eggs,  and  a 
loaf  of  white  sugar  all  to  be  distilled  in  white  wine." 
A  powder  of  pearls,  amber,  and  coral  was  given  for 
consumption;  while  others,  for  the  same  malady,  pre- 
ferred "  cock-water,  the  cock  being  to  be  chased  or 
beaten  before  he  was  killed,  or  else  plucked  alive,"  and 
then  distilled.  A  cordial  based  on  garden  snails  and 
earthworms,  "about  a  peck,"  was  used  for  dropsy; 
and  aches  of  the  sinews  and  griefs  by  sprains  were  re- 
duced with  "  oil  of  swallows  "  obtained  "  by  pounding 
twenty  live  swallows  in  a  mortar,"  with  as  many  roots. 
For  epilepsy  "  a  mole  .  .  .  dried  in  an  oven  whole 
as  taken  out  of. the  earth  and  administered  as  a  pow- 
der "  was  the  remedy;  deafness  gave  way  before  an  oil, 
the  result  of  "a  grey  eel  with  a  white  belly  inclosed 
in  an  earthen  pot "  and  buried  alive  for  fourteen  days. 
"For  a  stitch  in  the  side,"  prescribed  the  scientific 


GROVER  CLEVELAND. 


GERVASE  MARKHAM.  315 

Markham,  one  might  "  look  when  you  see  a  swine  rub 
himself,  and  there  upon  the  same  place  rub  a  slick- 
stone,  and  then  with  it  slick  all  the  swelling  and  it  will 
cure  it."  Csesar  was  bald  and  bewailed  it.  The  con- 
queror might  have  grown  hair  like  a  Sutherland  had 
he  but  fallen  in  with  Markham,  and  learned  that  all 
one  had  to  do  was  grease  one's  depilitated  poll  with  an 
ointment  confected  of  "garden  snails  plucked  out  of 
their  houses  and  pounded  with  horse-leeches,  bees, 
wasps,  and  salt  an  equal  quantity  of  each  "  ;  or,  if  that 
were  not  to  please  him,  then  a  potent  hair  balm  might 
be  gained  by  "drowning  in  a  pint  of  wine  as  many 
green  frogs  as  it  will  cover,  setting  the  pot  forty  days 
in  the  sun."  Such  was  medicine  in  a  day  of  Shaks- 
pere.  Lay  it  by  the  side  of  present  practice  and  de- 
cide how  far  we've  come. 

And,  having  done  so  much  for  physical  progress, 
place  beside  Bacon,  Kaleigh,  Sidney,  Shakspere,  Beau- 
mont, Lyly,  Spenser,  Jonson,  and  More,  the  best 
thought  of  poet,  moralist,  publicist,  and  philosopher 
of  now,  and  show  wherein  the  moral-mental  has  ad- 
vanced. Since  the  Eoman  builded  Watling  Street, 
and  the  Saxon  inhabitants  of  Britain,  with  bodies 
hand-painted  a  beauteous  blue  with  the  dyes  of  woad, 
stood  watching,  the  race  (has  traveled  far  in  the 
sciences  of  communication,  transportation,  and  dress. 
Also,  the  Atlantic  liners  are  a  great  tree  to  grow  from 
such  an  acorn  as  that  pitched  and  wattled  coble,  big 
enough  for  one,  of  coastwise  England,  ago  two  thou- 
sand years.  Those  are  great  strides;  but  they  mark 
nothing  save  a  progress  of  the  physical.  Not  that  one 
grieves  thereat.  One  is  simply  trying  to  reach  a  fact, 
not  find  a  fault.  The  physical  is  first,  the  moral- 


316  RICHARD   CROKER. 

mental  second;  if  we  cannot  progress  on  both  lines, 
but  only  one,  then,  for  comfort  and  the  race's  sake, 
let  it  be  as  it  is — the  physical. 

Do  you  say  our  laws  and  schemes  of  government  have 
progressed?  And  now  we've  but  added  another  to  im- 
provements physical.  Our  laws,  which  are  but  the 
uttered  detail  of  our  government,  were,  in  abstract, 
thought  and  talked  and  written  and  dwelt  upon  in 
every  age  of  which  we  know  the  story.  The  theory  of 
a  republic  is  as  old  as  the  hills;  indeed,  there  have  been 
ever  republics  back,  back,  back  in  the  dimmest  dis- 
tances of  time.  It  is  only  the  practice  that  with  us  is 
new.  And  whatever  of  progress  is  told  by  it,  like  medi- 
cine, like  railroads,  like  boat-bulding,  it  is  a  progress 
of  the  physical.  Improvement  in  law — a  betterment 
of  government — does  not  declare  a  moral  or  mental 
advancement.  There  exists  ever  a  tacit  resistance  to 
oppression,  and  the  birth  of  a  republic  means  no  more 
— even  though  it  be  the  better  government — than  that 
through  some  accident  of  crowned  weakness,  or  may- 
hap some  power  of  geography,  as  was  the  case  in  our 
own  Eevolution,  the  republicans  asserted,  conquered, 
and  afterwards  sustained  themselves.  England  and 
Germany  are  monarchies;  France  and  America  repub- 
lics. Yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  show,  speaking  of 
the  mental-moral,  wherein  the  standards  of  the  two 
latter  are  higher  than  those  of  the  others.  Mexico  is  a 
republic;  and  in  thought,  morals,  and  the  spiritual, 
she  cannot  contest  with  those  monarchies  named. 
And  Germany  comes  almost  to  be  a  tyranny  at  that. 

Take  the  immorality  of  drunkenness.  Folk  are  as 
drunken  now  as  in  the  time  of  Hengist.  Alcohol  is 
ever  suicide,  partial  or  complete  as  one  drinks  less  or 


THE  MORAL  STAGNATION.  317 

more.  No  one  doubts  this;  least  of  all  the  one  who 
sells  and  he  who  buys  and  drinks  the  poison.  We  make 
laws  thereat;  but  one  may  not  uproot  a  habit  with  a 
rule  nor  fell  a  tree  of  appetite  with  any  ax  of  statute. 
There  is,  in  an  item  of  drunkenness,  no  progress  of  the 
moral-ethical.  Nor  is  there  like  to  be.  It  is  the 
age  of  avarice;  of  commercialism  and  a  mania  of 
money.  Where  there  are  a  buyer  and  a  profit,  there  also 
will  be  a  seller  and  a  sale.  And  so  the  traffic  in  hell- 
water  goes  on;  and  its  litter — whereof  the  pedigree 
should  read,  "  out  of  Alcohol,  by  Apollyon  " — of  crime 
and  misery  and  degeneracy,  is  daily  brought  forth  in 
our  midst.  Does  such  promise  a  progress  of  the  moral  ? 
"Wine  makes  a  man  pleased  with  himself,  which  is 
no  small  matter,"  said  Johnson  to  Boswell,  as  the 
two  defended  tippling.  Johnson  was  a  false  donkey; 
he  might  have  said  as  much  of  insanity  in  more  than 
three-fourths  of  its  expression. 

What  is  the  trouble?  It  is  the  hour  of  commercial- 
ism, an  age  benumbed  of  commerce.  Deadly  to  the 
moral-mental  withal,  it  is  still  no  mark  of  genius,  and 
hardly  one  of  commonest  wit,  this  making  of  huge 
money.  Such  feats  of  riches  come  rather  from  a  red- 
squirrel  bent  to  hoard.  The  red  squirrel,  with  a 
brain  not  to  fill  a  thimble,  will  hoard  you  away  each 
autumn  enough  of  nuts  to  save  a  dozen  red  squirrels 
through  a  dozen  winters.  The  wolf,  sagacious,  strong, 
and  a  menace,  too,  lays  nothing  by;  he  pulls  down  each 
day's  beef  each  day.  And  yet  is  the  red  squirrel  wiser 
than  the  wolf  because  of  a  bushel  of  acorns? 

Commercialism  sways  the  scepter,  and  your  modern 
Alexander  is  the  "  business  man."  How  may  one  know 
him?  By  his  coarse  complacency  of  face,  with  its 


318  RICHARD  CROKER. 

prim  trimmed  beard  of  mutton-chop;  by  a  spirit  like 
unto  the  spirit  of  pork;  by  a  soul  the  height  of  his 
counter.  There  is  the  Produce  Exchange — a  body  of 
immortal  hucksters;  there  is  the  Stock  Exchange — a 
body  of  immortal  gamesters;  there  is  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce — a  body  of  immortal  Tories,  who  give 
Anglican  dinners  and  drink  "  God  save  the  King "  ; 
these  be  all,  all  "  business  men."  The  term  "  business 
man  "  is  become  a  first  potency  in  education,  theology, 
politics,  society,  where  you  will.  All  must  hear,  and 
all  obey  the  "business  man."  It  is  decidedly  a  Dog- 
berry instance  of  "when  I  do  ope  my  mouth  let  no 
dogs  bark." 

There  is  but  one  fellow  to  the  "  business  man."  In 
the  Eastern  Faraway  lies  dreamy  India;  hot,  dark-eyed, 
and  inert.  The  native  is  timid  and  retreatingly  weak. 
His  courage  is  as  dusky  as  his  skin.  In  the  groves 
about  the  native  villages  dwell  colonies  of  grave  gray 
apes.  They  come  whence  and  go  whither  they  list; 
they  enter  the  huts  of  the  villagers  and  help  them- 
selves. They  take  as  they  please;  and  no  Hindoo  may 
club  nor  chide,  nor  thwart  them,  nor  call  to  see  the  color 
of  their  apeships'  money,  for,  lo!  these  apes  be  sacred. 
These  are  the  "  business  men  "  of  India;  and  they  bear 
resemblance  to  their  brothers  over-seas.  Commercial- 
ism and  the  "  business  man  "  are  foes  to  enthusiasm, 
to  imagination,  to  art,  to  poetry,  to  literature,  to  every- 
thing but  commerce.  They  dam  all  streams  save 
streams  of  trade.  They  make  a  commodity  of  the 
sensibilities,  and  feel  gratitude  by  the  gallon,  and  are 
torn  with  love  by  the  yard. 

One  shudders  to  remember  what  a  critic  will  say 
who  has  read  this  work  thus  far.  One  may  hear  him 


TEE  FEARSOME  CRITIC.  31 9 

curse  behind  his  beard  and  demand  what  have  these 
meanderings  to  do  with  the  story  of  Richard  Croker? 
Let  him  growl  and  grind.  When  one  goes  grouse- 
shooting,  one  goes  for  the  feel  of  the  grass  underfoot, 
the  quick  taste  of  the  air,  the  greenery  of  the  woods, 
the  tree-talk  of  bough  against  bough  overhead,  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  bosk  and  the  gum-smells  of  the 
thickets,  the  lipping  and  chafing  of  the  brook  against 
its  banks,  as  much  as  ever  one  goes  for  grouse.  And 
what  care  we  for  critics!  What  is  a  critic?  A  critic 
is  he  who  finds  fault  with  you  for  doing  something  he 
could  not  do  in  a  way  he  would  not  do  it  if  he  could. 
Am  I  clear?  "  Clear  as  mud/'  say  you.  Thanks!  my 
spirit  wraps  itself  in  your  assurances  as  in  the  very 
silks  and  satins  of  satisfaction.  One  is  safe  who  holds 
of  critics  as  Sterne  wrote  of  them. 

"  '  Their  heads,  sir ' — quoth  the  author  of  Uncle 
Toby — *  their  heads,  sir,  are  stuck  so  full  of  rules  and 
compasses,  and  have  that  eternal  propensity  to  apply 
them  on  all  occasions,  that  a  work  of  genius  had  better 
go  to  the  devil  at  once,  than  stand  to  be  prick'd  and 
tortured  to  death  by  'em.' 

*  " '  And  how  did  Garrick  speak  the  soliloquy  last 
night?' 

" '  Oh,  against  all  rule,  my  lord — most  ungrammati- 
cally betwixt  substantive  and  the  adjective,  which 
should  agree  together  in  number,  case,  and  gender, 
he  made  a  breach,  thus — stopping  as  if  the  point 
wanted  settling; — and  betwixt  the  nominative  case, 
which  your  lordship  knows  should  govern  the  verb,  he 
suspended  his  voice  in  the  epilogue  a  dozen  times, 
three  seconds  and  three-fifths  by  a  stop-watch,  my 
lord,  each  time/ 


320  RICHARD  CHOKER. 

"'  Admirable  grammarian!  .  .  .  Was  the  eye 
silent?  Did  you  look? ' 

" '  I  looked  only  at  the  stop-watch,  my  lord/ 

" '  Excellent  observer!  And  what  of  this  new 
book?' 

" '  Oh,  'tis  out  of  all  plumb,  my  lord, — quite  an 
irregular  thing! — not  one  of  the  angles  of  the  four 
corners  was  a  right  angle.  I  had  my  rule  and  com- 
passes, my  lord,  in  my  pocket.' 

" '  Excellent  critick!  .  .  .  Grant  me  patience, 
oh,  Heaven! — Of  all  the  cants  which  are  canted  in  this 
canting  world — though  the  cant  of  hypocrites  may  be 
worst — the  cant  of  criticism  is  the  most  tormenting! 
I  would  go  fifty  miles  on  foot,  for  I  have  not  a  horse 
worth  riding  on,  to  kiss  the  hand  of  that  man  whose 
generous  heart  will  give  up  the  reins  of  his  imagina- 
tion into  his  author's  hands — be  pleased  he  knows  not 
why,  and  cares  he  knows  not  wherefore.' " 

What  is  the  balking  trouble  with  this  chapter? 
Why  does  it  not  get  on?  or  why  refuse  a  destiny  and 
avoid  its  work?  Wherefore  does  it  dawdle,  and  delay, 
and  wax  vociferous  over  nothings  like  some  hare-brain 
canine  barking  at  a  knot?  The  key  to  the  entire 
worry  lies  in  the  fact  that  my  intelligence  isn't  halter- 
broken;  it  won't  lead. 

*  When  I  sat  me  down  on  the  doorsill  of  this  chapter 
I  first  had  Bryan  in  my  mind.  Then  my  thoughts 
took  unexpected  wing  and  covered  what  of  this  chap- 
ter has  already  gone  before.  Then  my  conjecturings 
turned  again  to  Bryan;  only  for  a  moment.  From  the 
Nebraskan  they  roved  to  Hill — Hill  who  was  sedulous 
to  hide  his  light  beneath  a  bushel  of  jealousy  in  1896, 
to  let  it  shine  again  in  1900  because  reflection 


SOME  HILL  THOUGHTS.  321 

warned  him  that  he  was  but  four  years  distant  from 
1904. 

Next,  my  idle  thoughts  began  to  circle  and  sail  above 
Hill's  lack  of  gratitude  to  Croker,  and  the  eyeless, 
bat-like  characteristics  thus  betrayed.  Croker  gave  Hill 
his  nomination  for  Governor,  and  then  gave  him  his 
majority  at  the  polls.  And  yet  from  the  day  Croker 
made  of  him  a  Governor,  Hill  did  what  he  privately 
might  to  discourage,  divide,  and  disperse  the  power  of 
Croker  and  break  down  Tammany  Hall.  This  was 
green  and  hateful  ingratitude;  and  with  nothing  for 
its  parent  save  a  cheap  envy  of  Croker — for  no  in- 
terests, political,  or  otherwise,  of  Croker  and  Hill 
could  have  possible  collision — it  had,  as  a  sentiment, 
no  least  sustenance  of  common  sense.  Also  it  pointed 
the  poor  judgment  of  Hill.  Had  he  been  skill- 
ful of  men,  he  would  have  known  the  formidable 
character  of  Croker,  and  passed  him  by  with  his  in- 
trigues. Croker  made  Hill  Governor;  later  he  sent 
him  to  the  Senate;  and  one  may  suspect  for  no  other 
reason  than,  as  much  as  he  might,  to  be  rid  of  Hill  in 
New  York. 

Thus,  I  say,  did  the  eddies  of  my  thought  swirl  touch- 
ing Hill.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  they  slipped  away  anew; 
they  deserted  the  contemplation  of  Hill's  fatuous  in- 
gratitude, to  reflect  on  his  personal  appearance.  My 
thoughts  dwelt,  I  recall,  on  Hill's  mustache  and  scheme 
of  face  as  shown  in  his  shaving.  Then  they  moved  to  a 
general  survey  of  faces  and  beards,  and  with  the  coun- 
sel of  experience  made  wondrous  deduction.  My 
thoughts — they  had  won  beyond  any  rule  of  mine — in- 
sisted that  the  manner  of  one's  beard,  and  the  clip 
and  style  of  one's  apparel,  were  signboards  of  char- 


322  RICHARD  CROKER. 

acter;  that  externals  told  the  story  of  internals,  and 
garb  and  make-up  were  outward  indications  of  an 
inner  man.  Do  you  discover  a  gentleman  with  a 
red  hat-band?  Be  sure  there  is  another  inside  of  his 
head.  Are  his  clothes  extravagant  of  color,  kind,  or 
cut?  Some  garish  excess  that  lives  within  is  pointed 
to.  Are  garments  slop-shop,  and  trousers  of  ill  fit? 
They  prove  the  soul  inside  to  be  a  sloven,  and  tell  of 
morals  baggy  at  the  knee. 

And  next  my  rambling  cogitations  picked  up  this 
subject  of  beards  again.  They  whirled  and  tossed  it 
for  their  own  amusement.  There  are  but  two  human 
faces  in  Nature;  one  is  smooth  and  one  is  full  of 
beard.  When  one,  with  shears  and  blade,  betakes  one's 
self  to  an  improvement — for  so  one  deems  it — of  one's 
natural  visage,  results  will  ever  speak  the  secret  of 
one's  self.  The  full  beard  betokens  manhood,  honesty, 
simplicity,  and  withal  an  uncleanness  that  misfits  with 
modern  times.  Given  manhood,  honesty,  and  sim- 
plicity; with  a  white  fineness  of  fiber  added,  the  man 
mows  his  whole  face  smooth.  The  mustache  has 
manhood  and  a  spirit  to  be  military  behind  it.  The 
mustache  was  born  of  a  day  of  armor  when  helmets 
denied  accommodation  to  the  beard.  It  is  the  disaster 
of  the  mustache  that  it  is  common  behind  every  rum 
counter  of  the  land.  Your  mustache,  found  in  convoy 
of  a  full,  long,  and  abundant  sidewhisker,  argues  a 
weakling  vanity,  no  stubbornness  of  manhood,  and  a 
fervor  for  the  feminine  which  is  never  deeply  returned. 
Those  little  broom-beards  to  cover  the  chin,  while  the 
cheeks  are  shaved,  when  linked  with  a  mustache, 
promise  selfishness,  craft,  cunning,  and  no  fine  loyalty 
to  friend  or  principle.  It  is  the  instinct  of  conceal- 


BEARDS  AND  THEIR  STORIES.  323 

ment  which  frames  and  cultivates  this  beard;  it  is  an 
ambush  behind  which  the  wearer's  words  may  lurk 
and  hide.  The  broom-beard,  unaccompanied  of  the 
mustache,  proves  a  steady,  pains-taking  avarice  which 
will  follow  a  dollar  to  the  prison  door.  There  it  will 
pause.  The  broom-beard  of  either  kind  recounted  is 
never  worn  save  by  folk  of  commonest  clay — it  voices 
an  unfineness.  Its  wearers,  however,  will  generally 
be  "  respectable,"  because  they  will  always  be  discreet. 
The  business  "  mutton  chop  "  has  had  a  prior  mention, 
and  there  need  be  here  no  addenda  to  former  words 
thereon.  Then  there  is  the  fop's  face,  which  finds 
assertion  in  the  tenderly  clipped  Van  Dyke,  or  else 
those  wee,  waxed  mustaches  to  go  with  the  heroes  of 
hectic  romance.  One  might  write  days  without  end 
on  beards.  Those  imitative  beards,  snipped  in  patterns 
of  a  Prince  of  Wales;  or  those  mustaches,  turned  up 
and  flanged  like  a  buzzard's  wing  because  a  Kaiser  does 
it,  would  keep  one's  pencil  to  the  laborous  tread- 
mill of  a  month  in  descant  on  that  sterile  brain  which 
prompts  them.  It  was  thus  my  thoughts  gamboled  and 
rioted,  and  would  not  be  driven  in  the  legitimate 
service  of  this  book. 

Following  the  settlement  of  all  things  earthly  con- 
cerning beards  and  raiment,  my  conjecturings  next 
gave  way  to  a  half-melancholy  doubt.  They  re- 
proached me  with  a  willingness  to  lay  a  too-much  im- 
portance on  outward  signs  and  symbols.  As  though 
they,  my  vagrant  thoughts,  were  not  the  ones  guilty, 
and  had  not  done  the  whole  without  consulting  me! 
They  warned  me  not  to  repose  in  judgment  on  a  bare 
appearance.  They  spoke  of  whited  sepulchers;  and 
even  recalled  me  to  that  beautiful  trumpet  flower  of 


324  RICHARD  CROKER. 

the  tropics  that  closes  on,  imprisons,  and  devours  by 
ghoulish  suction  the  humming  bird  which  visits  within 
its  vampire  cup.  I  must  not,  said  my  thoughts, — whicii 
having  renounced  my  guardianship  of  them,  were 
now  to  pose  as  guardian  to  me, — I  must  not  let  simple 
appearance  carry  me  too  far.  My  theory  of  a  story 
told  by  looks  was  an  inantherate;  abortive,  sterile, 
with  no  chance  of  a  descendant  honest  child.  My 
thoughts  went  so  far  as  to  attaint  me  of  a  point  of 
view.  You  are  disturbed  and  discouraged  by  a  gorilla, 
and  do  not  like  his  looks,  said  my  thoughts.  And  yet 
that  is  because  of  your  point  of  view.  Without  ques- 
tion your  gorilla  is  a  fine  character,  if  taken  purely  on 
a  jungle  basis.  One  never  hears  of  your  gorilla 
swindling  and  cheating  and  oppressing  his  fellow 
gorillas.  Also,  he  exhibits  his  gothic  manhood  when 
after  supper  he  sends  his  wife  and  children  into  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  ancestral  tree  to  pass  the 
night  in  safety,  while  he  with  his  club  slumbers 
doughtily  at  the  foot,  ready  for  any  or  all  who  shall 
threaten  his  household. 

Next,  my  thoughts  declared  that  no  one  may  make 
a  rule  which  will  fit  mankind.  Humanity,  if  crack 
and  crevice  go  no  further,  at  least  parts  into  a  duo 
of  classes,  just  as  do  animals;  one  being  wild  and  the 
other  domestic.  There  are,  urged  my  thoughts,  people 
of  two  kinds,  the  sheep  people  and  the  wolf  people. 
One  class  drifts  in  flocks  and  lives  in  comfort;  it  is  first 
sheared,  and  then  eaten,  and  always  owned.  The  wild 
or  wolf  class  lives  hard  and  free;  its  member  dies  de- 
fiantly and  alone,  none  knows  when  nor  how  nor  where; 
and  no  one  owns  him.  With  such  a  variance  in  the 
plain  natures  of  men,  it  is  the  limit  of  risk,  so  said  my 


FOLLOWING  KELLY.  325 

thoughts,  to  attempt  conclusions  as  to  Jones  because 
of  discoveries  touching  Brown.  One  might  be  wolf, 
and  the  other  sheep;  one  a  flesh-eater  while  the  other 
dined  on  grass;  one  be  a  slayer  and  the  other  a  slain. 

And  this  while,  mind  you!  I  was  trying  to  coax  my 
errant  intelligence,  together  with  its  thought-foals, 
into  the  harness,  to  the  end  that  these  pages  be  right- 
fully plowed  and  planted.  My  thoughts  seemed  to 
weary  down  a  bit  following  that  hyperbole  of  wolf- 
and-sheep,  and  I  all  but  had  them  by  the  forelocks. 
And,  indeed,  it  was  not  long  thereafter  when  I  did 
Bquarely  herd  them  into  the  fence-corner  of  a  fact  or 
two,  and  effect  their  capture.  Probably  I  will  have 
blame  for  this  mental  runaway.  I  ought  not;  I 
couldn't  prevent  it.  The  disaster  wasn't  even  pre- 
ventable. Good  folk,  honest  folk,  will  exonerate  me 
in  the  business.  Only  madmen  and  "  reformers  "  de- 
mand the  impossible  and  abuse  one  when  it  isn't 
produced. 

When  Richard  Croker  was  given  charge  of  Tammany 
Hall  following  Kelly,  not  a  member  of  the  organiza- 
tion held  an  office.  Tammany  was  "  out "  in  the 
absolute  sense  of  the  word;  the  dominant  powers  of  the 
party  (local)  were  inimical  to  the  Tiger's  people.  Croker 
met  this  opposition  with  conciliation.  And  beneath 
the  conciliation  dwelt  a  sure  cunning.  Croker's  first 
move  was  a  surprise.  He  got  up  one  early  morning 
and  named  the  best  man  of  his  opponents  to  be  the 
head  of  the  Tammany  ticket.  This  action  shook  up 
the  faculties  of  the  enemy;  it  amazed  and  dismayed 
him.  In  four  years  Croker,  by  arts  of  conciliation 
backed  by  a  velvet  force,  had  brought  the  dis- 
cordant elements  of  the  Democracy  together  under 


326  RICHARD  CROKElt. 

one  banner — the  banner  of  Tammany  Hall.  The 
Irving  Hall  and  the  County  Democracies,  and  what 
others  there  were,  disappeared;  exhaled  beneath  the 
rays  of  Croker's  rising  policy  and  were  taken  up  and 
absorbed  by  the  older  organization.  Under  Croker's 
chiefship  the  Democracy  carried  for  eight  years  the 
city  and  did  not  lose  it  once.  The  first  stumble  was 
in  1894;  Tammany  was  routed  and  its  enemies  had 
possession  of  the  town.  The  year  before  this  disaster, 
however,  Croker  had  laid  down  his  leadership  and  re- 
tired to  quieter  fields.  Not  for  a  quartette  of  years — 
not  until  1897 — did  Croker  resume  any  active  Tam- 
many command. 

Cleveland  went  to  the  White  House  for  the  second 
time  in  1892.  For  the  four  ensuing  years,  had  he  been 
guided  to  his  work  by  the  very  demon  of  the  Republi- 
cans, he  could  not  have  more  completely  wrought  the 
dismemberment  of  the  Democracy.  At  the  close  of 
his  term  the  national  convention  of  the  party,  repre- 
senting in  its  vast  majority  a  hatred  of  Cleveland  and 
all  his  ways,  gathered  itself  together.  In  this  con- 
vention there  were  no  managers,  for  the  party  had 
cast  off  those  who,  in  the  traditions  of  politics,  should 
have  been  its  captains. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  star  of  William 
Jennings  Bryan  showed  over  the  horizon,  and  began 
to  climb  and  burn  in  the  party  heavens.  Bryan  was 
chosen  by  the  almost  unanimous  voice  of  this  conven- 
tion to  lead  in  the  campaign  for  a  Presidency.  Bryan 
created  himself  with  a  speech.  Hill,  too,  had  gone  to 
the  convention  with  a  harangue  in  his  pocket  and  a 
hanker  in  his  heart.  But  Hill,  with  a  usual  infelicity, 
maneuvered  himself  into  early  disrepute;  his  chance,  if 


WILLIAM  JENNINGS  BRTAN.  327 

he  had  one,  was  lost.  Bryan,  more  dexterous,  and  the 
abler,  better  man,  succeeded.  Bryan  also  had  his 
oration  and  he  delivered  it.  The  convention  was  in- 
flammable. Bryan  touched  it  with  the  torch  of  his 
"Crown  of  Thorns"  and  "Cross  of  Gold,"  and  for 
reward  was  fairly  conflagrated  into  nomination. 

It  is  worth  observe  that  those  who  now  read  Bryan's 
speech  on  that  fire-swept  occasion  wonder  at  its  tame- 
ness  and  fustian  character  of  commonplace.  Amaze- 
ment arouses,  and  asks  how  an  effort,  so  obviously 
mediocre,  could  so  blaze  in  its  results.  The  answer  is 
ready  and  valid  enough.  Oratory  is  of  the  audience 
rather  than  the  orator.  Take  a  cold  bar  of  iron.  Lay 
it  on  an  anvil,  and  smite  it — hammer  it  as  you  will. 
The  off-come  is  clamor — a  clangorous  horror  of  up- 
roar. But  heat  the  bar  white-hot.  Lay  it  again  on 
that  same  anvil,  and  with  the  same  hammer  strike  that 
selfsame  blow.  Instead  of  clangor,  the  result  beautiful 
is  a  fire-shower.  And  on  the  hot  and  spitting  iron  re- 
mains the  deep  mark  of  your  effort.  And  so  with 
oratory;  with  the  bar  as  audience  while  the  hammer 
is  the  speech.  And  so  with  Bryan  and  that  Presi- 
dential nomination.  It  was  your  pat  occasion  when 
man  and  hour  meet.  The  convention  was  at  white- 
heat.  Bryan  laid  it  on  the  anvil  of  opportunity;  struck 
it  with  the  hammer  of  his  rhetoric,  and  the  rest  is 
known  to  all.  And  yet,  as  said  before,  it  was  the 
audience,  not  the  orator,  that  furnished  the  eloquence. 

Bryan's  career,  impossible  in  any  other  land,  offers 
all  that  is  sharp,  ardent,  and  eventful.  Bryan  began 
his  public  work  in  1891;  five  years  later  six  and  one- 
half  millions  of  voters  sought  at  the  ballot-box  to 
make  him  president.  During  the  Fifty-second  Con- 


328  RICHARD  CROKER. 

gress  the  tariff  affairs  of  the  Democracy  went  stagger- 
ing. The  "popgun"  bills  that  Springer  framed  had 
neither  dignity  nor  tone.  They  were  sneered  at  by 
Democrats  and  scoffed  at  by  Eepublicans  in  every 
high  and  open  place.  It  was  not  until  Bryan  made 
his  first  tariff  speech  in  the  House  that  the  Democracy 
took  heart  and  regarded  life  worth  living.  On  this 
tariff  occasion  the  Kepublicans,  with  the  cynical  Reed, 
were  there  to  carp,  and  say  sharp  things,  and  ask  sharp 
questions,  and  make  evil  interruptions.  One  after 
another  the  orators  of  the  Democracy,  some  of  them 
old  in  conflict  of  the  forum,  were  riddled  by  Reed's 
sarcasm  and  made  to  fly.  Crisp,  in  the  chair, 
was  in  despair.  At  last,  Bryan  was  sent  into  the  thick 
of  House  storm.  He  came  with  the  advantages  of  a 
musical  voice,  a  bright  eye,  and  a  pleasing  personality. 
Nor  did  he  talk  long  before  he  developed  that  he  was 
not  alone  fair  of  his  English,  but  had  therewith  such 
command  of  the  subject  as  belongs  only  to  ones  who 
have  burned  the  lights  of  studious  preparation. 
Bryan's  speech  was  the  event  of  the  session.  Every 
thrust  of  Reed  was  parried;  every  blow  was  stopped 
and  countered.  Time  and  again  the  "  Big  Man  from 
Maine  "  was  made  to  draw  back,  discomfiture  in  his 
face,  while  the  House  howled.  For  a  new  man — a 
young  man,  one  who  had  not  talked  five  minutes  in 
the  House  before — the  feat  was  as  a  feat  of  wizards. 
At  the  close,  Crisp  and  the  fathers  of  the  forum  con- 
gratulated Bryan;  and  even  opponents,  while  disa- 
greeing, came  across  and  shook  him  by  the  hand.  That 
speech  saved  the  House  Democracy,  and  fixed  forever 
Bryan's  standing  as  a  master  of  forensic  fence.  What 
was  to  be  applauded  most  was  the  stability  of  the  man; 


BRYAN'S  RECORD.  329 

no  more  to  be  stampeded  than  a  stone  wall;  no  more 
to  be  put  to  flight  than  a  tree.  In  the  Fifty-second 
and  the  Fifty-third  Congresses  Bryan  was  in  the  fore- 
front of  party  movement.  In  his  second  Congress, 
while  still  a  member  of  the  Ways  and  Means,  with 
Wilson  at  the  head,  he  not  only  made  the  leading 
speech  for  the  Wilson  bill,  but  a  speech  so  elaborately 
complete  for  Silver,  that  Culbertson  of  Texas,  himself 
the  gray,  wise  Nestor  of  the  House,  said:  "  That 
exhausts  the  subject.  It's  the  best  possible  setting 
forth  that  the  cause  of  Silver  can  have."  During  his 
Congressional  life  Bryan  led  up  the  forces  for  low 
tariff,  Silver,  fought  to  repeal  the  National  Bank  acts, 
and  consistently  aided  Hatch  to  pass  his  Anti-Option. 
On  appropriations  Bryan  was  against  extravagance 
and  lived  the  persistent  champion  of  economy.  With 
his  own  people  he  was  always  a  leader,  and  the  Nebraska 
Senators  came  often  to  the  House  to  gain  his  views. 
Bryan  was  a  Presbyterian  in  religion.  He  was  fre- 
quently in  the  pulpit  as  a  lecturer.  Politically,  he 
refused  no  call  to  speak.  He  once  addressed  a  con- 
course of  preachers,  and  then  talked  politics  from  a 
rum-shop  bar  on  the  same  day.  When  the  house  held 
a  Sunday  session,  Bryan  left  his  seat  for  an  hour  to 
lecture  on  the  divinity  of  Christ  in  a  church  on  Capitol 
Hill.  Bryan  in  habit  was  decorous  and  well  within 
the  moral  line.  He  had  no  redeeming  vices.  Bryan 
prepared  a  speech  with  care.  He  wrote  it,  pruned, 
pared,  and  rehearsed  it.  He  said  once  that  he  would 
no  more  speak  without  preparation  than  he'd  plunge 
wingless  into  an  abyss.  Bryan's  life  was  quiet,  except 
so  far  as  he  disturbed  it  with  pilgrimages  of  politics. 
He  had  no  circle  of  friends,  made  and  received  no 


330  RICHARD  CROKER. 

social  visits.  He  was  in  no  sense  a  lady's  man.  He 
was  not  a  rose  of  society.  In  dress  Bryan  could  not 
have  been  called  a  fop.  Neither  would  he  have  excited 
the  cartoonist  with  any  Greeleyan  degeneracies  of  rai- 
ment. His  garb  was  modest  and  of  dark  reserve.  Bryan 
would  have  won  no  notice  for  the  clothes  he  wore. 
In  epitome,  Bryan  was  the  West.  His  life  was  simple; 
he  made  up  existence  meeting  men,  reading  books, 
making  speeches  to  further  his  political  ends.  Bryan 
served  two  terms  in  Congress  without  a  mark  to  his 
discredit;  and  failed  of  re-election  through  an  over-pro- 
duction of  Cleveland.  He  was  not  a  Mugwump,  not  a 
Populist;  but  a  Democrat  who  got  his  inspirations  in 
a  party  past.  No  one  need  blush  for  Bryan.  He  was 
as  good  a  Democrat  and  as  true  an  American  as  any 
who  ever  bought  a  bond  or  owned  a  bank.  Bryan  was 
in  person  of  middle  height,  strongly  and  stockily  built. 
His  shoulders  were  broad  enough  to  excite  the  approval 
of  a  wrestler;  his  chest  was  as  deep  as  that  of  a  race 
horse.  Nor  was  he  overabundant  about  the  waist.  He 
looked  what  he  was — a  man  of  health  and  perfect 
physical  power.  Mounted  on  Bryan's  square  shoulders 
was  a  square  head.  His  hair,  black  and  recalcitrant 
rather  than  docile,  defied  brush  and  comb,  and  tumbled 
and  tossed  with  a  spirit  of  its  own.  This  wayward 
black  hair,  coarse  as  a  pony's,  would  have  given  Bryan 
a  shaggy  effect  were  it  not  for  the  relief  he  brought 
the  situation  by  completely  shaving  his  face.  No 
beard,  no  mustache,  had  the  freedom  of  Bryan's 
countenance.  Every  trace  was  mowed  away  with  the 
light  of  each  new  day,  and  when  the  world  saw  him, 
he  was  as  smooth  as  a  curate.  There  was  nothing  soft, 
nor  yielding,  nor  effeminate  in  Bryan;  nothing  of  the 


BRYAN'S  CHARACTER.  331 

flower.  His  eye  was  dark,  his  complexion  swarthy,  with 
the  British,  not  the  Spanish,  swarthiness;  his  nose  an 
eagle  curve,  his  mouth  well  widened  and  firm,  and  the 
whole  based  on  a  jaw,  the  seat  of  strength,  and 
as  square-hewn  as  if  cut  from  Devon  rock.  Bryan's 
instinct  was  conservative.  He  went  not  easily  to  the 
new.  Like  all  well-balanced,  well-built  men,  Bryan 
was  a  creature  of  his  environment.  He  was  for  a  low 
tariff;  yes.  He  was  for  free  silver;  yes.  Because  they 
were  as  naturally  a  Western  product  of  principle  as 
was  corn  a  natural  product  of  the  soil.  There  would 
be  neither  truth  nor  justice  in  picturing  Bryan  as  some 
Danton,  or  some  Eobespierre,  the  apostle  of  disorder, 
bound  to  cast  all  into  chaos  and  then  cement  chaos 
with  blood.  Bryan  was  not  of  that  school.  He  was 
wise,  faithful  to  a  trust,  honest  with  the  probity  of  the 
sun,  morally  as  well  as  physically  brave,  and  as  much 
the  patriot  as  any.  It  skills  not,  aids  not,  yields  noth- 
ing to  the  safety  nor  glory  of  the  gold  or  any  cause  to 
belie  this  man.  Give  him  his  due,  and  tell  of  him  the 
truth,  as  one  would  had  he  come  from  the  East  instead 
of  the  West,  and  been  able  to  show  a  railroad  or  a 
bank  in  his  pedigree.  His  honesty,  his  patriotism, 
were  not  to  be  impugned.  What  he  asked  for  was 
proper  subject  of  debate,  and  perchance  refusal;  but  the 
man  himself  was  no  more  to  be  corroded  than  gold,  no 
more  corruptible  thaa  a  diamond.  Personally,  Bryan 
charmed  all  who  approached  him.  None  who  knew 
him  refused  him  respect.  Bryan  was  of  the  old  party, 
and  in  him  the  careful  searcher  would  have  found  a 
renaissance  of  the  ancient  Democracy.  It  was  excel- 
lently in  Bryan's  favor  that  he  was  founded  on  him- 
self. No  coterie  controlled  him.  All  there  was  of 


332  RICHARD   CROKER. 

Bryan  was  Bryan.  Bryan  was  what  folk  call  "mag- 
netic." Men  liked  him.  He  was  pleasant  to  the  eye, 
to  the  ear,  and  soothed  by  his  presence  and  never 
troubled.  No  man  saw  him  in  a  passion.  He  was  cool 
and  of  a  cautious  temper.  No  flush  of  irritation  red- 
dened his  cheek.  He  was  of  poise;  and  his  emotions 
sat  steadily,  as  became  those  of  one  who,  with  care 
for  himself,  ate  thrice  a  day,  laughed  at  dyspepsia, 
and  slept  soundly  of  nights.  Bryan  was  well,  even 
highly,  educated.  He  had  quarried  books  and  tunneled 
learning  with  any  musty  professor  of  them  all.  More 
than  books,  he  had  studied  men,  and  their  lives  were 
his  lessons.  He  had  a  memory  like  unto  wax,  and 
what  he  heard  or  read  or  saw  remained  with  him. 
Bryan  was  not  so  profound  as  quick;  and  with  an  in- 
tellect, rather  military  than  philosophical,  he  made 
weapons  of  all  he  knew,  and  every  scrap  of  learning 
belonging  to  him  was  at  hand  to  be  defensive  or 
offensive,  as  his  swift  aptitude  for  combat  might  de- 
cide. It  is  not  too  much  to  say  of  Bryan  that  the 
arena  of  politics  presented  no  one  of  that  day  who, 
with  fuller  information,  more  pleasing  address,  more 
ready  eloquence,  and  a  quicker  wit,  could  cope  with 
and  overcome  him.  Bryan  was  these  things  excellent. 
Also,  Bryan  was  defeated,  which  is  not  so  good.  Bryan, 
in  1896,  should  have  won.  He  was  beaten  by  a  lack 
of  party  discipline;  by  a  plentiful  want  of  wisdom  at 
the  headquarters  of  party.  There  was  too  much  of  the 
camp  meeting,  too  little  of  the  military,  in  Democratic 
management.  Like  a  mob  the  party  went  to  the  elec- 
tion; like  a  mob  it  was  met  and  routed. 


XIX. 

THE   REFORMERS. 

One  might  live  without  raiment,  and  live  without  food; 

And  live  without  evil,  and  live  without  good. 

One  might  live  without  laughing,  and  live  without  sighing — 

One  almost  had  said,  one  might  live  without  dying — 

But  who  is  the  man  who  could  live  without  lying? 

—Queries  of  the  Practical. 

LET  us  go  backward  a  pace.  Cleveland,  following 
1892,  directly  and  indirectly  fomented  Mugwumpery 
and  anti-Democracy  in  the  City  of  New  York.  In  a 
personal  sense,  at  least,  your  fault-finder  should  not 
for  this  tilt  with  Cleveland  and  break  lance  of  wrath 
against  him.  Cleveland  for  that  second  White  House 
owed  nothing  to  Tammany  Hall.  Wherefore,  always 
sour,  ever  personal,  and  never  generous  in  either  a 
spirit  of  party  or  of  public,  Cleveland  strove  his  dead- 
liest towards  the  destruction  of  Tammany  and  the  New 
York  City  Democracy  as  then  was. 

There  is  an  element  of  politics,  self-styled  "  reform." 
It  is  opulent  of  numbers  in  this  town.  Its  leadership 
is  much  in  the  fingers  of  a  parcel  of  outcasts  of  all 
parties  and  politics,  and  a  ranting  circle  of  dominies, 
crazy  of  notoriety.  These  trouble-makers,  under  the 
warmth  of  Cleveland's  favor — for  he  coddled  them  as 
ones  hateful  of  Tammany — began  to  stir  and  swell. 
Also,  in  the  accident  of  general  feeling,  the  town  met 
your  "  reformers "  halfway, — the  grain  stood  ready 
nodding  to  their  sickles  of  lunacy  and  disappointment. 

833 


334  RICHARD   CROEER. 

The  town  was  eager  of  "  reform."  That  is,  the  public, 
never  careful  of  its  nomenclature,  called  it  "  reform." 

This  sudden  gush  of  goodness  on  a  people's  part  is 
a  phenomenon  frequent  enough.  Like  those  trade 
cataclysms  termed  "  business  panics,"  it  will  fall  out 
about  five  or  six  times  in  a  century.  Both  are  seasons 
of  hysteria;  one  of  commerce,  the  other  of  morals. 
It  chanced  to  this  town  as  a  community  to  have  moral 
hysteria  in  1894.  And  being  of  this  regenerate  temper 
— a  temper  which,  to  the  discouragement  of  theories 
as  to  an  immediate  near  millennium,  never  lasts — the 
public,  as  stated,  met  the  "  reformers  "  halfway. 

To  you  who  for  any  purpose  may  be  a  student  of 
communities,  here  is  a  sentence  of  advice:  When  a 
town  demands  "  reform,"  it  does  not  mean  reform. 
It  has  only  bungled  with  a  term.  It  does  not  yearn 
for  moral  change;  it  desires,  rather,  some  mitigation 
of  immoral  expression.  It  objects  to  refuse  in  the 
street;  privily,  it  does  not  object  to  refuse  in  the  back 
alley,  where  it  never  walks  and  seldom  casts  its  eyes. 
Towns  are  like  drunkards:  they  encourage  and  request 
some  reason-limit  of  restraint;  but,  with  the  last  word, 
they  no  more  want  reform  in  fact  than  they  want 
burning  at  the  stake. 

"  I  would  sooner  part  with  my  fortune  than  my 
vices,"  said  Colley  Gibber;  and  cities  and  Gibbers  are 
much  of  a  sort. 

Your  casual  and  not  over-interested  citizen  is  much 
justified  in  discounting  the  true  inwardness  of  that 
reform  which  inhabits  the  mouths  of  professional  and 
incessant  "reformers."  Folk,  whether  they  know  it 
or  no,  boast  themselves,  as  a  rule,  for  attributes  and 
feelings  and  resolutions  whereof,  compared  with  folk 


THE  HUMBUG  OF  BOASTS.  335 

voiceless  touching  the  same,  there  are  least  of  traces 
in  their  breasts.  Your  brave  man  never  names  his 
courage;  your  honest  man  is  dumb  as  to  his  integrity. 
And  communities,  in  these  habits  of  self-glorious 
announcement,  are  exact  with  individuals.  When  you 
invade  a  region  which  boasts  of  its  hospitality,  have  a 
care  that  your  purse  be  well  bestowed  with  money — you 
will  pay  for  what  you  get.  Boston,  now  that  slavery 
is  departed  by  edict  of  a  Kentuckian  born  and  bred 
where  slavery  was  an  institution — Boston,  now  that 
"  Abolition  "  is  an  accomplished  and  a  fashionable  fact 
— vaunts  herself  as  the  first  cradle  of  black  freedom  in 
this  land.  Within  the  eighteen  months  next  prior  to 
Lincoln's  election,  however,  the  Concord  clergy  and 
the  town's  "  best  men  "  besought  Thoreau  not  to  speak 
in  approval  of  John  Brown  or  a  palliation  of  his  eccen- 
tric liberalisms;  while  in  Boston,  Wendell  Philips  was 
being  mobbed  and  his  assassination  conspired,  for 
preaching  "  Abolition,"  and  Andrews,  Governor,  was, 
in  that  peril,  refusing  Philips  the  common  shield  of 
law.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  their  now  descendants 
tell  loudly  of  their  love  of  liberty  for  all.  Yet  it 
is  none  the  less  a  truth  that  when  the  passenger  traffic 
in  pilgrims  ran  low,  the  Mayflower  was  turned  into  a 
slaver;  and  instead  of  Standishes  and  Bradfords,  and 
Winthrops  and  Aldens,  brought  over  fettered  and 
screaming  dusk  cargoes  to  moan  and  toil  and  know 
the  name  of  freedom  never  more.  Throughout  the 
North,  one  hundred  years  ago,  slavery  flourished.  It 
was  put  away;  not  for  that  it  was  some  devil's  sin,  but 
because  it  didn't  pay.  The  immorality  of  slavery  was 
a  Northern  afterthought. 

Take  the  New  England  otherside.    That  region  was 


336  RICHARD  CROKER. 

never  known,  to  brag  the  courage  of  its  people.  And 
yet  the  Yankee  is  as  dauntless  as  any  who  sailed 
with  Francis  Drake.  The  Yankee  will  ransack  the 
Arctics  for  whale;  he  will  rock  for  weeks  on  the 
misty,  wreck-sown  Banks  of  Newfoundland  for  cod; 
he  will  go  anywhere,  dare  anything  in  hunt  of 
fortune  or  to  have  his  way.  And  your  Yankee  goes 
blithely  to  blood.  Within  weeks  following  the  opening 
gun  of  our  Revolution,  the  British  were  driven  from 
New  England;  and  for  the  seven  troublous  years  to 
ensue,  never  an  Englishman  was  to  make  a  track  in 
Yankee  land.  It  was,  with  the  exception  of  a  British 
ten  minutes  in  a  Connecticut  port,  to  be  the  same  in 
the  War  of  1812.  Does  such  immunity  from  English  fire 
and  sword  relate  no  story  of  the  Yankee?  And  New 
England  was  the  sentimental  as  well  as  military  point 
at  which  England  should  have  struck.  New  York  City's 
record  is  abject  by  the  side  of  Boston's.  This  town 
surrendered  to  every  hostile  body  who  came  up  the 
bay.  Any  fishing  smack  of  determined  violence  could 
take  the  town,  and  did. 

Twice  England  invaded  seriously  this  country;  and 
both  times  of  set  plan  of  conquest.  These  schemes  of 
invasion  were  alike.  The  base  was  Canada;  and  the 
line  of  English  triumph  was  to  lie  through  Champlain 
and  along  the  Hudson.  It  was  easy  and  simple  in 
theory  and  on  a  map.  It  would  have  been  in  fact, 
were  it  not  for  the  Yankee.  In  the  Revolution  the 
English  died  at  Saratoga  with  Burgoyne;  in  the  last 
war  they  were  sunk  in  Champlain;  in  each  adventure 
the  folk  who  met  them  were  four  of  five  the  Yankees. 
The  New  England  man  is  a  bold  and  desperate  soldier. 
The  more  so  since  his  strifes  have  ever  a  fiscal 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  MAN.  337 

side.  He  takes  a  set  of  books  to  a  battlefield.  As  he 
wheels  a  battery  into  position,  he  opens  an  account. 
He  charges  himself  with  the  powder  burning,  credits 
himself  with  the  enemies  slain,  and  while  the  fight 
pays  three  per  cent,  he  keeps  it  up.  New  England 
never  boasts  the  courage  of  its  people,  and  yet  a 
deathless  courage  is  the  overtowering  attribute  of  the 
entire  tribe. 

Folk  who,  in  politics  or  private  life,  are  wont  to 
exalt  their  virtue,  may  wisely  be  distrusted  as  ones 
bankrupt  of  true  virtue.  Sometimes  such  are  hypo- 
crites, sometimes  only  fools  who  fail  themselves  to 
know.  This  is  true  of  "  reformers  "  and  "  reform." 
Your  clamorous  reformer  is  seldom  in  public  earnest, 
and  never  a  public  good.  Moreover,  he  is  powerless 
for  any  bleaching  change.  For  reasons  of  a  profit  of 
money  there  is  to  be  no  soon  disappearance  of  vice.  Vice 
will  continue  until,  commercially,  vice,  like  slavery, 
does  not  pay.  There's  a  shrewd  tribute  in  rents,  and 
in  goods  and  wares  purchased  and  consumed  allowed 
by  vice  to  coffers  of  general  trade.  Commercialism — 
that  pastor  to  a  flock  of  profit! — that  religion  of  your 
"  business  man  "  ! — will  ever  guard  and  shepherd  vice 
in  favor  of  its  rich  and  final  fleece. 

In  1894  the  town  fell  foaming  in  a  fit  of  sentiment; 
it  was  pinched  of  a  transient  repentance.  And  it  threw 
itself,  sobbing,  into  the  laps  of  those  "  reformers," 
above  described;  and  whom,  like  the  poor,  we  have 
always  with  us.  The  "  reformers  "  took,  and  Tammany 
lost,  the  town. 

It  was  prior  to  this  by  about  a  twelve-month  that 
Eichard  Croker  resigned  his  chieftancy  of  Tammany. 
For  thirty  years  he  had  stood  in  the  storm  for  the 


338  RICHARD  CROKER. 

organization.  He  was  weary  and  craved  rest.  There 
was,  however,  as  he  retired,  the  lamp  of  one  determina- 
tion to  glow  in  his  resolves.  Those  friends  who  had 
been  as  the  power  of  his  arm,  and  who  were  to  be 
left  behind,  must  be  preserved.  They  were  not  to  be 
hereafter  crushed  by  the  organization  in  new  and  per- 
haps jealous  hands.  That  was  Croker's  compact  with 
himself. 

Croker  pitched  on  one,  Sheehan,  to  succeed  him. 
Sheehan  was  skilled  in  politics,  albeit — though  not 
without  a  foxish  strength  of  his  own — weak,  com- 
pared with  Croker.  This  Sheehan  choice  of  Croker's 
was  not  popular.  The  "  leaders  "  were  against  it.  But 
Croker  insisted,  and  by  a  composite  of  cajolery  and 
compulsion,  Croker,  as  usual,  made  his  way.  Sheehan 
was  decided  on,  vice  Croker  resigned;  all  answering 
"  Aye! "  save  the  obdurate  John  Scannell,  who,  for 
forty  years,  had  been  Pythias  to  Croker's  Damon,  and 
who,  in  the  face  of  Croker's  pleading,  voted  "  No  "  to 
the  last.  Sheehan  now  at  the  helm,  Croker  sought 
England,  and  an  ease  cum  dignitate. 

Croker  was  gone -from  the  command  of  Tammany 
Hall  four  years.  His  absence,  however,  in  its  true 
effect  might  best  be  understood.  There  was  not,  dur- 
ing those  years,  a  moment  when  the  throttle  and  the 
levers  of  complete  leadership  were  not  within  his 
reach.  He  had  but  to  stretch  his  hands  to  have  them. 
And  this,  as  one  read  before,  was  for  the  conservation 
of  those  who  had  been  his  strength  in  peace  and 
tempest  both,  and  not  once  faltered  of  their  faith  to 
him. 

It  was  no  fault  of  Sheehan  that  "reform"  beat 
down  the  town  in  1894.  Nor  should  the  defeat  of  two 


SHEEHAN  WAS  HELPLESS.  339 

years  later,  when  Bryan  lost  New  York  City  by  some 
twenty  thousand,  be  charged  to  Sheehan;  Bryan 
(locally)  was  fair  impossible.  Croker,  had  he  been 
to  the  fore,  might  have  held  the  city  situation;  for  his 
personality — as  exhibited  in  1900,  when  with  no  better 
Bryan  and  no  worse  McKinley  reasons  offered  than 
were  shown  four  years  before,  Croker  in  the  saddle 
brought  up  the  town  for  Bryan  by  near  thirty  thousand 
— is  worth  a  difference  in  favor  of  Democracy  of 
twenty-five  thousand  men,  or  fifty  thousand  in 
majorities. 

Still,  while  honesty  will  not  lay  on  Sheehan  those 
defeats  which  smote  the  Tammany  Democracy  in 
1894  and  the  trio  of  years  thereafter,  it  cannot  but  be 
admitted  that  the  Sheehan  hold  on  Tammany  was  not 
strengthened  thereby,  nor  was  any  organization  confi- 
dence in  Sheehan's  favor  thereof  generated.  And  thus 
stood  affairs  in  Tammany,  following  the  Bryan  disaster 
of  1896.  The  Wigwam  entered  upon  1897  with 
.Sheehan  in  command,  but  with  his  grasp  of  both  men 
and  matters  Democratic  much  shaken  and  enfeebled. 

That  Croker  at  this  time  was  not  far  to  call  is  beheld 
in  this:  As  early  as  February  of  that  year,  Croker  was 
on  ship,  to  sail  again  for  England.  Sheehan  sought 
him  and  his  counsel. 

"  Whom  should  it  be  for  Mayor  next  autumn?  "  said 
Sheehan. 

"  Van  Wyck,"  responded  Croker;  "  Van  Wyck  is  the 
man  you  want.  He  has  the  three  things  that  Tam- 
many most  requires  in  this  year's  contest;  brains,  cour- 
age, and  integrity.  Name  Van  Wyck." 

In  February  Croker  had  already  re-assumed  in  fact 
the  post  of  leader  of  the  organization;  an  assumption 


340  RICHARD  CROKER. 

which,  because  of  Sheehan's  later  sly  conspirings,  was 
nine  months  afterwards  to  become  as  obvious  as  it  was 
actual. 

Sheehan  was  too  small  a  figure  for  the  supreme  seat 
of  Tammany  Hall.  He  fell  beneath  the  harrow  of 
events.  Nevertheless,  from  any  view  of  justice  and 
disinterest,  Sheehan  was  not  at  fault  and  had  no  chance. 
Deluged  by  defeats  over  whose  causes  he  had  no  con- 
trol, torn  by  an  ill  fortune  that  belonged  to  the  party 
at  that  time  and  not  to  him,  disliked  and  disobeyed  by 
the  full  one-half — at  least  eighteen — of  Tammany's 
"leaders/'  had  Sheehan  been  Philip  of  Macedon,  still 
would  he  have  been  swept  down. 

Finding  himself  sinking,  Sheehan  made  a  mistake. 
Instead  of  discerning  the  source  of  his  weakness  in 
himself,  and  in  the  situation  whereof  he  was  the 
arch's  too-small  keystone,  he  believed  that  Croker  was 
secretly  pinching  off  his  buds  of  power.  Sheehan 
should  have  had  more  wisdom.  A  half-sagacity  would 
have  told  him  that  Croker,  strong  enough  to  put  him 
where  he  was  in  the  face  of  protest,  was  quite  equal 
to  the  mark  of  puffing  him  from  the  scene  with  any 
breath.  Sheehan  believed  that  Croker  worked  against 
him.  Thereupon  Sheehan  began  the  transaction  of 
some  milk-and-water  chicanery  against  Croker. 

These  trivial  small  conspiracies  of  Sheehan  evinced 
themselves  in  coldness  towards  and  interference 
in  disfavor  of  folk  who  had  been  of  Croker's  Life 
Guards.  The  darkest  might  have  foretold  the  out- 
come of  such  action.  And  Sheehan  had  had  his  warn- 
ing. At  a  dinner  of  the  "  leaders  "  on  the  last  day  of 
Croker's  active  rule,  and  when  he  passed  his  baton  to 
Sheehan,  Croker,  after  demanding  of  each  present  in 


PROMISE.  341 

the  name  of  what  friendship  he  might  hold  for  him 
(Croker)  to  yield  a  best  obedience  to  the  new  captain 
and  strengthen  and  uphold  his  hands,  said: 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  which  will  bring  me  back 
to  any  active  part  in  politics,  and  that  is  the  safety  of 
my  friends.  Now  that  I  put  aside  my  command  of 
Tammany  Hall,  and  step  down  into  the  ranks  of  the 
organization, — now  that  I  end  my  leadership  in  poli- 
tics and  leave  the  field, — I  leave  behind  me  those 
whose  friendships,  in  every  stress,  and  through  every 
strain  and  danger,  have  never  failed  me.  Nor  will  I 
while  I  live  fail  them.  Whether  it  come  in  one  year 
or  in  ten,  and  though  I  should  be  at  earth's  most  dis- 
tant end,  so  sure  as  one  of  these  shall  need  my  aid, 
I'll  come  to  help  him.  And  so  I  say  to  you.  And  so  I 
say  to  this  man,"  and  Croker  laid  his  hand  on  Sheehan's 
shoulder  where  he  sat  at  table  next  him,  "  whom  you 
have  made  your  chief." 

This  is  all  of  Sheehan;  let  him  be  dismissed.  Nor 
should  judgment  torture  him;  Sheehan  is  better  than 
his  story.  Therein,  however,  he  is  not  alone.  "The 
evils  which  men  do  live  after  them."  None  is  so  bad 
but  he  is  better  than  his  biography.  Even  one's  best 
friend  never  knows  one's  best  nature;  how,  then,  is  he 
to  tell  of  it?  The  same  is  true  of  peoples  and  of 
periods.  All  history,  as  written,  comes  to  be  naught 
better  than  the  gutter  of  time;  the  beautiful  and  the 
best  of  an  age  are  never  found  therein — only  the  age's 
drainage. 

Richard  Croker  returned  to  power  in  1897.  It  was 
for  his  friends.  He  came  from  England  in  the  sum- 
mer. There  transpired  then  a  curious  show  of  the 
tremendous  hold  of  Croker  with  the  men  of  Tammany 


RICHARD  CROKER. 

Hall.  No  word  preceded  him;  he  asked  none  to  meet 
him.  Debarking,,  he  went  to  his  hotel.  There  was  no 
syllable  of  suggestion,  or  request,  or  command,  to  issue 
from  him;  nothing  save  days  of  silence. 

With  the  coming  of  Croker,  Tammany  stagnated. 
There  was  a  profound  halt  with  nothing  certain  but 
uncertainty.  Then  twenty-two  of  the  thirty-five 
"  leaders  "  together  called  on  Croker. 

"  We  want  you  to  come  back,"  they  said. 

"Are  you  here  as  my  friends  and  acquaintances,  or 
as  '  leaders '  of  Tammany  Hall?  "  demanded  Croker. 

"  We  come  in  our  characters  of  '  leaders/  " 

"  There  are  twenty-two  of  you,"  observed  Croker. 
"  Am  I  to  understand  that  the  thirteen  other  '  leaders ' 
object  to  your  request?" 

"  No,"  they  replied;  "  thirty-three  of  the  thirty-five 
want  you  to  return  to  your  old  command  of  the  organi- 
zation and  take  charge  of  this  campaign." 

"  Tammany's  wigwam  is  in  Fourteenth  Street,"  re- 
torted Croker,  and  his  glance  was  hardened  in  rebuke. 
"What  have  you,  as  'leaders/  to  do  on  Murray  Hill? 
Has  the  organization  been  put  on  wheels  since  I  left, 
that  you  trundle  it  about  the  town?  Go  back.  I  will 
come  on  one  condition.  Your  chief — who  is  not  with 
you — must  write  me  asking  my  return." 

Croker  resumed  the  guiding  staff  of  Tammany  Hall. 
His  sway  was  more  absolute  even  than  before.  The  po- 
litical outlook  demanded  work.  The  "  reformers  "  were 
in  the  wheelhouse  of  local  domination;  they  swarmed 
in  every  corner  of  city  mastery.  But  they  were  to  be 
beaten  and  scourged  and  driven  from  the  temple. 
Three  years  before  they  had  gone  to  power  with  a 
majority  of  seventy  thousand;  they  were  to  suffer 


TAMMANT  RESTORED.  343 

deposal  by  almost  eighty  thousand.  Their  reign, 
wrenched  and  racked  with  wickedness,  could  be  tracked 
by  that  dripping  corruption  which  attended  its  every 
step.  Deformation  civic  and  not  reformation  had 
been  the  harvest  of  them. 

Croker  adhered  to  his  February  thought  and  put  up 
Van  Wyck.  It  was  an  inspiration.  "  Greater  New 
York  "  had  had  Republican  construction.  This,  be- 
tween the  parties,  was  to  be  the  first  duel  for  its  ruler- 
ship.  Under  all  the  circumstances,  fighting  on  a  new 
and  larger  field,  and  with  the  untested  machinery  of 
the  just-built  greater  city  to  set  in  motion,  Van  Wyck 
was  a  best  nomination.  And  Van  Wyck,  with  Croker's 
hand  on  the  tiller,  came  through  to  victory.  Tam- 
many had  been  redeemed. 

Van  Wyck,  as  Mayor,  is  one  in  whom  a  people  may 
not  only  have  a  confidence,  but  take  a  pride.  As  Chief 
Executive  of  the  city  he  makes  a  safe  and  graceful 
quantity.  Van  Wyck  is  not  old;  he  lives  still  on  the 
sunny  side  of  middle  age.  He  is  wise,  ardent,  indus- 
trious, and  of  severe  integrity.  Van  Wyck  hates  a 
rogue,  loathes  a  Pecksniff,  and  has  scant  patience  with 
a  fool.  His  Democracy  is  rock-ribbed.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  water-color  in  his  politics;  Van  Wyck  is  a 
partisan.  For  Republicans  he  has  no  agreement;  for 
Mugwumps  no  mercy.  Jefferson  would  have  adopted 
him;  Jackson  taken  his  hand.  He  was  one  of  the  best 
of  jurists;  he  is  better  still  as  Mayor.  The  office  will 
wait  long  at  the  gates  ere  a  wiser,  braver  comes  to 
fill  it. 

There  is  that  which  is  exemplary  in  the  manliness 
of  Van  Wyck.  He  grows  to  a  principle;  welds  himself 
to  a  friend.  He  will  stand  by  both  to  the  last.  In  this- 


344  RICHARD   CROKER. 

busy,  crowded  hour,  when  egotism  rules  and  every 
man  is  his  own  North  Star,  few  there  be  to  wholly 
know  and  appreciate  Van  Wyck.  The  city  was  new; 
the  charter  was  new.  There  were  jealousy  and  no 
love  between  the  threescore  and  ten  communities 
which  had  been  herded  hastily  together  to  become 
"  Greater  New  York."  Van  Wyck  was  the  first  of  his 
line.  He  had  no  predecessor  whom  he  might  follow; 
no  precedent  whereby  to  walk.  The  charter,  like  his 
office,  smelled  of  the  glue  and  varnish  of  yesterday's 
construction.  Yet,  sans  jolt,  and  friction,  and  loss, 
the  times  have  gone  with  a  suave  accuracy  and  a  soft 
and  carded  strength  that  most  towns  miss. 

Van  Wyck's  administration  has  been  a  marvel  of 
city  management.  Not  only  was  the  town  new;  worse 
— it  was  bankrupt.  And  yet,  where  has  there  been 
loss?  or  failure?  or  falling  away?  or  retrogression? 
Every  interest  has  been  defended;  every  prospect 
fostered;  the  town  has  not  only  held  its  ground,  it 
has  gone  forward.  Criticism,  hate-tipped,  cannot 
point  to  a  disaster.  Honest,  stern  for  justice,  stub- 
born for  the  good;  it  is  of  such  Van  Wyck  wood  a 
world,  when  wise,  makes  Presidents. 

However,  he  is  worth  most  where  he  is.  Wildly  as 
it  may  assail  the  ear  as  statement,  a  Mayor  is  of  more 
real  and  potent  moment  than  a  President.  The  world 
is  a  fool  misled  by  glitter,  deluded  of  a  noise.  Kightly 
viewed,  from  the  grounds  of  immediate  citizenship 
and  man's  daily  life,  a  City  Hall  is  greater  than  a 
White  House.  Ordinances  are  more  cogent  than  gen- 
eral statutes,  and  the  Mayor  who  vetoes  or  signs  the 
first,  of  an  interest  more  intimate  than  that  President 
who  vetoes  or  signs  the  others.  By  the  same  word!  a 


ONE'S  REAL  RULERS.  345 

Congressman  is  of  less  concern  than  a  Councilman  who 
legislates  to  your  doorstep;  a  supreme  judge  of  no  such 
weight  as  a  Magistrate  who  fines  you  for  not  cleaning 
your  sidewalk,  or  a  policeman  who  warns  you  against 
obstructing  the  street.  Your  city  rulers  are  your  real 
rulers;  while  a  President  is,  in  truth,'  as  far  away  and 
cloud-wrapped  as  the  tyrant  of  some  dream. 

Following  this  contest  of  1897,  which  had  for  its 
end  the  avalanching  of  the  Democracy  upon  its  ene- 
mies, and  a  Tammany  retaking  of  the  town,  Croker 
seized  a  first  occasion  to  be  publicly  heard.  It  was 
by  way  of  interview  in  a  leading  paper: 

"  We  have  just  ended  an  election,"  he  said,  "  and 
the  Democracy  was  successful.  In  face  of  reason,  and 
justice,  and  good  sense,  the  opponents  of  Democracy 
made  me  ( the  issue.'  Every  untruth  was  told;  every 
epithet  to  which  slander  could  lay  the  malice  of  its 
tongue  or  bend  its  pen  was  flung  against  me.  I  said 
nothing  during  the  progress  of  the  campaign;  I  have 
lived  in  New  York  City  for  fifty  years  and  was  willing 
to  let  reply  to  the  injustice  of  my  enemies  be  made 
by  the  people  at  the  polls.  My  vilifiers  have  been 
confuted  by  a  plurality  of  almost  eighty  thousand. 
And  now  that  the  fight  is  done,  and  Democracy  has 
triumphed,  there  is  a  word  for  me  to  say.  There 
has  never  been  a  specific  charge  of  wrongdoing  to  be 
laid  at  my  gate.  Slander  was  ever  general,  and 
never  pretended  to  state  a  venal  fact  against  me. 
It  will  be  seven  weeks  before  the  new  Democratic 
administration  takes  hold.  Meanwhile,  the  opposi- 
tion, and  particularly  those  folk  who  were  most 
active  in  their  press  and  on  their  platforms  in  de- 
faming me,,  have  all  the  public  records  in  their 


346  EICHARD  CROKER. 

possession,  and  hold  every  office — city,  county,  and 
State.  Let  them  dig  in  their  records  and  hunt  in  their 
offices.  If  I  have  wronged  the  public  in  any  least  de- 
gree, the  records  must  show  proofs  and  traces  of  it. 
Let  these  people  who  have  made  these  wrong  charges 
point  them  particularly  out.  Seven  weeks  is  ample 
time.  They  owe  it  to  themselves,  as  well  as  to  the 
public  whose  money  they  draw  as  salaries  and 
have  taken  an  oath  to  serve.  They  have  all  the 
machinery  of  State  and  local  government;  the  Gov- 
ernor, the  Mayor,  the  sheriff,  the  district  attorney,  the 
juries,  the  detectives,  the  police.  They  have  the 
comptroller's  office  and  all  the  records.  Let  them 
now  show,  in  at  least  one  instance,  directly  and  specifi- 
cally, where  the  public  has  suffered  so  much  as  an 
ounce  of  loss  through  me.  Their  failure  shall  mark 
their  tales  as  slanders  and  point  to  them  as  ones  who 
bear  false  witness." 

In  1898  the  Democracy,  with  Crokfcr  in  conduct  of 
its  energies,  reswept  the  town  against  Eoosevelt,  justly 
far  and  away  the  opposition's  most  darling  figure. 
Croker  held  the  town  by  nearly  ninety  thousand.  Save 
for  rogueries  rural,  and  a  worm-fence  desertion  of  the 
party,  Croker  would  have  carried  the  State.  Roose- 
velt, with  the  fresh  and  smelling  glory  of  San  Juan 
blood  upon  him,  succeeded  in  the  whole  State  by  fewet 
than  nineteen  thousand. 

In  1899,  under  Croker,  the  Democracy  again  kept 
New  York  County  by  seventy  thousand;  while  in  1900 
— with  the  dragging  handicaps  of  Bryan  and  Silver 
both — the  party  with  Croker  controlled  the  town  by 
twenty  thousand. 

It  was  Bryan  and  McKinley  for  a  second  time  in 


DAVID  B.  HILL. 


WILLIAM  MCKINLEY.  347 


1900.  The  latter,  plastic,  ductile,  docile,  safe,  had 
pleased  his  party's  magnates  well.  He  had  been  sweet 
to  management.  He  owed  everything  to  Hanna,  and 
he  paid  in  full.  Eeed  was  possessed  of  a  precise 
thought  when,  in  response  to  query  put  just  following 
McKinley's  first  inaugural,  he  said: 

"Hanna  run  for  the  Presidency  in  1900?  Why 
should  he  snatch  at  the  shadow  when  he  has  the 
substance?" 

McKinley  is  the  middle  size  of  man.  He  is  passive;  he 
is  acted  upon  and  does  not  act.  He  is  prudent  of  him- 
self; nor  over-sensitive.  He  strikes  poses  and  becomes 
a  picture.  He  shrinks  from  the  new.  He  sees  nothing 
that  has  not  been  seen,  hears  nothing  that  has  not 
been  heard,  finds  nothing  that  has  not  been  found, 
says  nothing  that  has  not  been  said,  thinks  nothing 
that  has  not  been  thought,  knows  nothing  that  has 
not  been  known,  does  nothing  that  has  not  been  done, 
and  would  neither  eat  nor  breathe  were  there  not 
precedent  for  each.  He  is  a  peg  of  a  President  on 
which  Money  hangs  its  hat  as  it  sits  down  to  the  con- 
duct of  government  —  a  snubbing  post  to  which  all 
craft,  pirate  and  merchantman,  tie  up  alike.  Is  he 
honest?  —  yes. 

"  There  are  different  kinds  of  honesty,"  quoth  Mor- 
rison, once  of  the  Ways  and  Means.  "  There  is  this 
man  McKinley;  he's  honest.  There  was  Eandall;  he 
was  honest.  And,  for  myself,  I  Beckon  I'm  honest. 
But  there  is  this  difference.  If  I  were  to  fall  into 
bankruptcy,  no  rich  men  would  pay  my  debts.  If  I 
were  to  die,  no  rich  men  would  present  my  widow  with 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  I'll  tell  you  why.  My 
sort  of  honesty  never  did  that  sort  of  fellow  any  good." 


XX. 

THE   TRUSTS. 

For  Falsehood  now  doth  flow, 

And  subject's  faith  doth  ebbe; 
Which  would  not  bee  if  Reason  rnl'd 

Or  Wisdom  wove  the  webbe. 

— Percy's  Reliques. 

BRYANT  was  beaten  in  the  second  campaign  as  de- 
cisively as  in  the  one  before.  The  "business  inter- 
ests "  were  afraid  of  him.  Most  men,  and  peculiarly 
"  business  men,"  with  that  unintelligence  to  which 
the  mob  seems  grafted,  think  they  are  electing  a  god 
rather  than  a  President — a  god  whose  power,  like  a 
Gorgon's  head,  could,  did  he  care  to  exercise  it,  turn 
them  into  stone.  They  should  ruminate  a  bit;  the 
President  is  not  a  legislative  body.  And,  if  he  were, 
one  cannot  enact  "  prosperity  "  by  terms  of  law.  The 
world  has  "  good  times  "  and  "  bad  times,"  and  com- 
merce its  tides  to  come  and  go.  These  are,  so  to  say, 
as  an  aspiration  and  an  inspiration  of  trade, — a  busi- 
ness breathing,  if  you  will — and  have  no  more  to  do 
with  politics  than  with  the  pastoral  rite  of  sheep- 
washing  in  Ettrick's  distant  dales.  The  President, 
building  the  nest  of  his  ambitions  in  the  White  House 
to  hatch  the  eggs  of  his  little  policies,  is  like  a  bird 
similarly  nest-building  in  the  top  of  a  tree;  and  one 
has  not  more  to  do  with  any  following  "  prosperity  " 
or  its  bankrupt  absence,  than  has  the  other  with  that 
year's  crop  of  nuts.  But  "  business  men  "  don't  know 
these  things. 

848 


CAMP-MEETING  CAMPAIGNS.  349 

That  "management"  of  a  national  Democracy  in 
1900  was  of  the  camp-meeting  character  of  the  prior 
campaign.  This  did  not  make  for  loss,  however, 
as  Democracy  was  doomed  in  advance.  Bryan  was 
beaten  by  bad  management  in  1896;  in  1900  Bryan 
defeated  himself.  Bryan  mislaid  the  issue. 

In  practical  truth,  and  beyond  a  simplest  campaign 
purpose,  issues  do  not  count.  Nobody  in  or  out  of 
office  heeds  the  issue  after  an  election.  One  has  war- 
rant for  this:  In  1892  a  President  was  elected  on  a 
tariff  issue;  and  to  please  the  banks  he  called  an  extra 
session  for  finance.  In  1896,  a  President  was  elected 
on  an  issue  of  finance;  and  at  the  request  of  manu- 
facturers he  called  an  extra  session  for  tariff.  And 
thereat  the  peasantry  seemed  pleased;  at  least  there 
was  no  complaint;  wherefore,  as  said  before,  one 
may  assume  that  after  an  election  an  issue  doesn't 
count. 

But  before  an  election,  and  in  the  shock  of  parties, 
issues  are  tremendously  important.  And  Bryan 
turned  up  the  wrong  lane.  He  struck  for  Silver;  an 
issue  live  and  real  in  his  first  battle,  but  surrendered 
and  departed  from  by  the  masses  in  1900.  Bryan 
planted  himself  on  Silver.  He  should  have  had  more 
of  the  education  of  events. 

Silver,  finance,  is  (to  use  a  colloquialism)  a  hard-luck 
issue.  It  is  a  raft,  or  a  breeches  buoy;  to  be  popular, 
the  public  must  first  feel  itself  wrecked.  The  place  to 
look  for  an  issue  is  not  your  pocket,  nor  the  selfish  plans 
of  politicians  hoping  place;  the  issue  is  found  in  the 
question  of  the  people.  Bryan  didn't  realize  this;  he 
adhered  to  Silver  and  was  buried  with  it — buried 
Presidentially  for  all  coming  time, 


350  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Bryan's  error  was  grown  of  a  multiplied  experience 
of  cheap  men.  He  had  met  many  men;  but  not  the 
right  men.  Bryan,  for  four  years,  met  only  those  who 
came  to  him.  Such  offer  but  a  meager  and  misleading 
course  of  study.  One  learns  little  or  nothing  of  folk 
who  come  to  one.  Emphatically  is  this  true  of  those 
about  whom  there  has  been  much  of  talk  and  uproar. 
By  advertisement  of  their  powers,  or  fortunes,  politi- 
cal or  otherwise,  certain  men  become  raised  above  the 
rest.  There  they  stand  like  lighthouses;  and  flagrate 
with  this  oil  of  ink,  they  shine  attractively  to  moral 
bats,  and  all  lunatic  fowl  of  politics,  and  insects  of 
mental  night.  Thus  it  was  with  Bryan.  Those  who 
came,  and  hung,  and  fluttered  in  his  face,  and  whose 
squeaking  cheeps,  and  buzzings  filled  his  ears,  told 
him  no  wisdom,  endowed  him  with  no  thought.  This 
ruined  Bryan;  just  as  a  similar  siege  of  wittol  admira- 
tion broke  down  Cleveland  in  his  second  reign.  Bryan 
did  not  meet,  and  talk,  and  mentally  hug  and  wrestle 
with  the  right  folk.  And  thereby  he  missed  the  issue, 
and  the  Presidency. 

No  man  is  original;  none  a  law  unto  himself.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  tub  on  its  own  bottom — it  is  ever 
a  borrowed  bottom.  To  have  ideas,  a  man  must 
scratch  himself  like  a  match  against  another  man. 
Sparks  come  only  from  sharp  collision  and  brisk  con- 
tact; never  of  themselves.  Next  to  meeting  men,  read 
books.  Books  for  wisdom;  men  for  collecting  a  flow, 
a  flash,  a  dash,  a  vividity  of  spirit.  Were  I  called  to 
conference  with  youth  ambitious  of  a  greatest  destiny, 
I  would  talk  like  this:  Meet  men.  Dress  well.  To  mount 
in  life  you  must  meet  and  deal  with  men;  and  you  are 
to  rise  or  fall  by  men's  impressions  of  you.  A  first  im- 


COUNSEL  SARTO&IAL.  351 

pression  is  the  impression  important — it  will  wear  and 
last.  And  folk  are  reached  most  deeply  through  the 
eye;  the  ear  is  but  a  poor  avenue  for  one's  approach. 
Would  you  know  the  difference  between  the  ear  and 
the  eye  as  conduits  of  impression?  Listen,  then,  to  a 
tale  descriptive  of  one  who  has  been  run  down  and 
crushed  by  a  street  car.  You  will  feel  the  conventional 
horror;  then,  in  a  moment,  the  picture  has  faded  from 
your  mind.  Be  an  eye-witness  to  some  such  grisly 
catastrophe.  You  will  fall  sick,  lose  appetite,  start  in 
your  sleep  for  months.  Dress  well  as  a  method  of 
beneficial  first  impression,  and  to  lure  the  favor  of  the 
other's  eye.  Be  certain  of  the  definition  of  the  phrase 
"dress  well." 

"  He  was  so  well  dressed,"  said  Alvanley,  "  that 
everybody  turned  to  look  at  him." 

"  Then  he  was  not  well  dressed,"  retorted  Brummel. 
And  the  Beau  was  right. 

One  will  not  sooner  enlist  the  antagonism — aye!  I 
had  almost  said  the  hatred — of  a  stranger,  than  by 
some  bright  extravagance  of  dress.  It  is  an  animalism; 
but  one  should  reflect  that  men  are  only  animals;  one 
must  be  on  the  watch  for  animalisms.  They  are  more 
dangerous  than  intellectualities,  and  must  be  dodged. 
Eefuse  all  fantasticisms  of  costume.  You  may  try 
this  on  the  dog.  Select  some  sedate,  common  form  of 
dog.  Walk  him  for  a  mile  along  the  street.  A  dozen 
dogs  will  see  him  and  bestow  upon  him  no  violent  at- 
tention. Tie  a  red  handkerchief  about  his  neck. 
Those  dozen  dogs  will  assail  him  out  of  hand;  they 
will  comment  on  and  criticise  him  with  their  teeth. 
They  resent  the  red  handkerchief.  Once  a  friend  re- 
fused a  business  transaction  with  a  person,  much  a 


352  RICBARb  CHOKER. 


stranger  to  him,  but  of  good  repute.  Both  lost  thou- 
sands by  that  negative.  I  asked  my  friend  wherefore 
he  turned  his  back  on  an  arrangement  so  manifest  of 
profit.  He  said  that  he  despised  the  other  man.  Pressed 
for  cause,  he  at  last  reluctantly  confessed  that  his 
antipathy  was  born  of  the  fact  that  the  first  time 
he  saw  the  one  in  question  the  latter  had  a  broad  red 
collar  of  silk  about  his  neck,  upholding,  low  on  his 
shirt  front,  a  massive  gold  medallion,  the  badge  of 
some  foolish  order  of  American  "  nobility."  My  friend 
had  loathed  him  ever  since;  he  preferred  a  loss  of 
thousands  to  the  torture  of  a  ten-day  business  con- 
junction with  him. 

When  the  sun  has  gone  down  wear  dress-clothes. 
Evening  clothes  are  the  most  democratic  of  uniforms. 
They  are  rigid,  and  put  a  limit  on  extravagance.  They 
are  a  palladium;  they  prevent  the  billionaire  from  blot- 
ting one  out  with  an  opulence  of  costume.  They  are  a 
best  bulwark  of  Americanism. 

Avoid  clubs;  join  some  good  chophouse.  Clubs  are 
clearing  houses  of  inanity;  seminaries  where  dullness 
is  taught  as  an  art.  You  will  find  no  giants  there. 
They  are  but  shallow  waters;  clubs  are  not  meant  for 
any  swimming  of  big  fish.  Clubs  are  designed  to  ex- 
clude opinion,  and  by  a  spirit  of  social  elimination 
include  "  respectability."  Go  carefully  with  this  last 
term;  it  is  a  most  determined  cheat.  Clubs  offer  but 
two  advantages,  and  these  are  such  only  to  folk  who 
feel  their  want.  They  present  a  privilege  of  gambling 
without  fear  of  the  constables;  and  offer  the  oppor- 
tunity of  over-drink  with  a  least  risk  of  disrepute.  They 
never  help  and  always  hurt.  Join  some  superlative 
chophouse.  One  meets  everybody  in  a  chophouse;  any- 


THE  WOMAN  GOOD.  353 

body  in  a  club.  The  first  is  preferable;  one  gets  more 
for  one's  conversation. 

Meet  the  best  women.  Women,  beautiful  and  bril- 
liant, shape  and  polish  men,  and  give  them  an  air  and 
an  edge.  You  can't  see  too  many  wise  and  beautiful 
Hypatias.  Men  are  quicker,  braver,  wittier,  better,  in 
the  presence  of  a  woman,  just  as  the  male  bird,  in  those 
seasons  when  he  seeks  to  engage  the  approval  of  the 
female,  takes  on  a  livelier  note,  a  brighter  color,  and  a 
bolder  strut.  Meet  as  many  beautiful  and  brilliant 
women  as  you  can;  seek  for  them  as  for  lost  treasure. 
Each  is  an  epigram.  Marry  one,  if  she  will.  You 
will  secure  counsel  and  a  dignity  thereby.  And  you 
will  not  become  that  moral,  mental,  physical  quick- 
sand called  a  bachelor.  There  is  no  respect  for 
the  bachelor;  nothing  save  suspicion.  He  is  a  blow 
aimed  at  the  race.  He  has  the  place  in  society  of  a 
fox  in  a  barnyard.  It  has  been  ever  so;  it  is  human 
nature.  Dercyllidas  was  a  brave  soldier  of  Sparta;  but 
Dercyllidas  was  a  bachelor.  When  a  youth  refused  to 
give  -him  a  seat,  with  the  remark,  "  No  child  of  yours 
will  ever  make  room  for  me,"  the  youth  had  the  ap- 
plause of  the  elders. 

Have  no  vanities,  exhibit  none.  Strive  to  understand 
the  word.  Long  hair  on  a  man  proves  vanity.  Short 
hair  on  a  woman,  or  a  gown  of  ostentatious  plainness, 
and  a  bald  pattern,  as  though  designed  to  fit  a  billet  of 
wood,  is  evidence  of  vanity.  Moreover,  it  tells  of  a 
vulgar  vanity — a  vanity  that  almost  crowds  to  im- 
morality. Greeley  was,  in  his  way,-  a  fop;  Diogenes, 
in  his  tub,  a  prig.  They  were  both  slaves  of  vanity — 
the  conceit  of  the  studied  uncouth. 

Vanity  is  various  and  wide-flung.     One  meets  with 


354  &IQBA&D  CROKEft. 


vanities  of  all  kinds.  Once  I  descended  upon  Concord 
where  Yankee,  when  time  was,  met  Briton  in  a  first 
discussion  of  the  Kevolution.  I  came  not  there  in  any 
way  of  idleness;  I  was  sent  to  write  and  to  work.  My 
business  was  to  engross  what  thoughts  might  come  of 
those  literary  great  ones  whose  memories  were  as  that 
hamlet's  halo.  Of  these  ones  of  renown  there  had  been 
him  to  stand  above  the  others.  I  had  read  his  words. 
They  were  heavy  with  a  phrase-haze  and  a  fog  of 
spirit,  yet  alight  and  thundrous  of  the  thought,  storm- 
born.  Titanic  figures  showed  dimly  in  them,  like 
mountains  in  a  mist.  It  was  as  though  afar  and  be- 
yond and  behind  the  horizon  of  his  being  there  had 
dwelt  a  world  of  mighty  ideas,  whereof  a  mirage  was 
again  and  again  projected  into  his  brain  —  the  formida- 
ble shadows  of  majestic  things;  but,  alas!  like  all 
mirages,  upside  down.  And  he  would  describe  these 
visions.  Multitudes  read  his  writings;  for  while  one 
felt  the  confusion  as  of  one  standing  on  one's  head, 
yet  they  had  their  charm. 

This  pen-Thor  was  long  dead  before  my  time.  But 
his  home  of  former  days  was  there,  appointed  and  fur- 
nished as  he  had  left  it.  I  would  see  this  home; 
it  would  waft  me  an  inspiration.  The  spinster 
daughter  of  our  god  departed  occupied  the  house.  She 
was  of  years,  and  I  fear  me  soured  of  a  ferment  of 
time  and  too  much  singleness.  I  sent  her  a  note,  and 
begged  for  five  minutes  of  that  house  whenever  she 
should  say.  Also,  as  displaying  faith,  I  disclosed  my 
mission  of  the  magazine.  That  letter  would  have  won 
me  audience  of  the  Pope.  For  a  later  purpose  of 
initial,  I  will  miscall  the  god  "  Oak  ";  and  his  de- 
scendant spinster,  "  Mistletoe."  I  had  this  reply: 


VANITY  ON  STILTS.  355 

"Miss  M.  must  excuse  herself  from  receiving  any 
call.  Miss  M.  requests  Mr.  L.  not  to  name  her  in  his 
Concord  article,  as  she  is  a  private  person.  Mr.  O.'s 
biography  is  in  the  public  library  and  will  tell  all  that 
is  necessary  to  know  about  him." 

This  was  vanity, — a  discouraging  case  of  vanity  on 
the  maiden's  part, — a  vanity  which  denied  a  plain  right 
of  the  public  and  of  mine.  Also,  I  had  said  naught  of 
mentioning  "  Miss  M."  in  any  article.  The  god,  afore- 
said, had  of  his  own  choice  kicked  and  pounded  with 
his  pen-hammer  at  the  front  door  of  general  notice 
until  a  good-natured  world  unbarred  and  let  him  in. 
The  public  clapped  fame  on  his  crest,  and  gave  him 
wealth.  This  note  of  Miss  Mistletoe  was  not  a  way 
wherein  to  entertain  the  honest  approach  of  a 
curiosity  which  her  parent  god  had  personally  planted 
and  nursed.  I  wrote  the  following  rebuke,  in  which  I 
endeavored  in  my  fashion  to  propose  a  question  of  much 
fine  personal  right.  It  was  my  hope  that  the  Concord 
School  of  Philosophy  might  be  trepanned  into  taking 
it  up  in  debate  and  so  wreck  itself  as  on  a  rock: 

"  Mr.  L.  re-presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  M.  and 
thanks  her  for  the  note.  Mr.  L.,  in  deference  to  Miss 
M.'s  request,  will  not  name  her  in  his  Concord  article. 
Mr.  L.  is  driven,  however,  to  say  that  he  holds  Miss 
M.'s  request  unjust.  Miss  M.  has  perfect  right  to  her 
existence,  and  to  see  or  not  see  people  as  Miss  M.  may 
be  pleased  to  determine.  But  Miss  M.  has  no  more 
right  to  the  fact  of  her  existence  than  has  Miss  M.  to 
the  tracks  she  made  in  yesterday's  snow.  It  is  any- 
body's, everybody's  to  remember,  dwell  on,  mention, 


356  RICHARD   CROKER. 

and  revere  in  any  proper  way.  Mr.  L.  will  not 
elaborate  his  theory  and  weary  Miss  M.,  but  rest 
content  with  its  statement.  Mr.  L.  is  confident  that 
Miss  M.  will,  in  her  thoughtful  seclusion,  one  time 
justify  it;  she  may  even  conclude  in  the  premises  that 
her  request  smacks  of  advertisement  and  the  prayer 
of  the  Pharisee.  Mr.  L.  will  still  remain  the  servant 
of  Miss  M.  in  his  disappointment/' 

There  was,  to  my  note,  no  reply;  I  was  treated  with 
merited  contempt.  Neither  did  the  School  of  Philoso- 
phy break  its  discussional  shins  thereon.  I  still  con- 
tend, however,  that  the  barred  and  bolted  attitude  of 
Miss  M.  was  born  of  vanity  and  nothing  else;  and  I 
warn  that  youth  with  whom  I  now  converse,  and  for 
whose  enlargement  I  have  prevailed  on  myself  to  re- 
late this  painful  tale,  not  to  unbend  in  any  like  poor 
conduct  with  Miss  M.'s,  should  he  one  day  be  similarly 
placed.  Miss  M.  is  in  the  wrong.  There  she  sits; 
gnawing  the  nail  of  her  vanity,  blocking  the  way  to  a 
shrine. 

Don't  be  ashamed  to  accept  this  counsel,  oh,  youth! 
Jupiter,  himself,  was  raised  on  goat's  milk.  Incline, 
therefore,  your  further  ear.  Be  a  gentleman.  One 
speaks  not  now  of  that  wasp-waisted  gentility  that 
founds  itself  on  golf,  and  polo,  and  automobiles,  and 
single-stickers,  and  four-in-hands,  and  which  boasts  as 
best  acquirement  a  graceful  ability  to  pick  up  a  lady's 
fan,  or  that  weird  sagacity  which  knows  the  confusing 
fish-fork  from  its  fellows  as  our  gentility  sits  down  to 
dine.  That  gentility  demands  as  its  foot-stone  a  dead 
and  hopeless  middleness,  moral  and  intellectual,  which 
it  is  to  be  thought  you've  missed.  No;  one  points 


THAT  BEST  GENTILITY.  357 

rather  to  another  gentility,  flower  of  a  much-wisdom, 
a  stalwart  sympathy,  and  a  kind  probity  of  heart.  One 
piping  critic — a  callow  creature  this,  of  hollow  chest 
and  hollow  head  and  hollow  heart,  and  of  a  man- 
hood as  sallow  as  his  cheek — one  piping  critic,  I  say, 
complained  to  me  that  Croker  was  not,  as  he  expressed 
it,  "  a  gentleman  ";  that  is,  he  had  no  pink-tea  graces 
and  would  expand  to  nothing  ornamental  as  an  ele- 
ment of  cotillions.  Sappy  was  right;  and  yet  should  he 
be  instructed:  Genius  is  never  a  "gentleman,"  as 
Sappy  struggles  with  the  term.  Cromwell  was  "  no 
gentleman "  ;  Napoleon  was  "  no  gentleman  "  ;  our 
own  Grant  adorned  a  line  of  battle  rather  than  those 
ranks  of  social  tinsel  styled  "  our  best." 

In  matters  of  even  a  slightest  concern,  for  one  may 
never  foretell  a  final  magnitude,  approach  decision  with 
caution.  And  never  decide  in  the  night.  Plan  in  the 
night  as  much  as  ever  you  please;  but  reserve  conclu- 
sion for  the  day — resolve  only  when  the  sun  is  up. 
The  night  is  a  season  of  impulse — a  reckless  time. 
Darkness  calls  to  the  predatory  in  man's  nature — 
calls  on  his  inner  wolfishness  to  rouse  itself.  The 
going  down  of  the  sun  promotes  the  crime  tendency 
in  man.  Congress  should  never  sit  in  the  night.  The 
moral  tone  is  at  its  lowest,  charity  is  diminished,  the 
sentinels  of  one's  better  soul  are  heavy  and  somnolent, 
and  even  Justice  nods — in  the  night.  The  larger  share 
by  three-fold  of  all  the  blood  and  horror  and  tragic 
atrocity  of  the  French  revolution  found  decision  in 
the  absence  of  the  sun.  Wherefore,  though  you  may 
consider  in  the  night,  conclude  only  in  the  face  of  day. 

Shall  you  travel  widely,  do  you  ask?  Travel  is  of 
no  such  mad  and  boiling  commandment  as  the  example 


358  RICHAItD  CHOKER. 

of  idle  rich  ones,  desperate  of  much  wealth  and  run- 
ning from  themselves,  might  teach  one  to  believe.  It 
is  better  to  read  a  book  than  see  a  city.  There  is  a 
regional  sameness  wherever  you  go.  As  ever  it  is  hill 
and  vale  and  grass  and  tree  and  lake  and  river,  with 
the  same  sun  swinging  in  the  selfsame  heavens  over- 
head. He  sees  as  much  who  bides  at  home.  Old  Whit- 
tier  had  it  right: 

I  know  not  how  in  other  lands 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go  ; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 

On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 

And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveler's  tale. 

Yet  on  life's  current  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails ; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 

The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 

And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset  call  to 
prayer ! 

The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 

Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and  fall ; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 

Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Hafiz  smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland  aisles. 

Thoreau  would  not  go  to  Paris,  for  he  couldn't 


THE  ARMOR  OF  BOOKS.  359 

spare  the  time  from  Concord  and  Walden  Pond.  The 
Thoreau  precedent  of  home-staying  is  not  bad. 

Never  ride  when  you  may  walk;  eat  thrice  a  day; 
sleep  eight  hours;  and  meet  men.  Also,  carry  a  book 
about  you.  Some  storm  may  blow  a  fool  upon  you,  and 
the  book  shall  be  as  a  harbor  and  a  haven  where  you 
may  ride  safely  out  the  tempest.  Carry  Lamb's  "Elia," 
or  Bacon's  "Essays,"  or  More's  "Utopia,"  or  Plato's 
"Republic,"  or  Bayard  Taylor's  "Echo  Club,"  or 
Thackeray's  "  Rose  and  Ring,"  or  Virgil's  "  Eclogues," 
or  Hazlitt's  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  or  Shaf  tesbury's 
"  Characteristics,"  or  Gay's  "  Fables,"  or  Heine's 
"  Ballads,"  or  some  such  printed  gear.  These  are  all 
to  be  had  in  baby  volumes — little  and  light  and  fitted 
to  a  pocket.  Any  one  of  them  is  a  perfect  bombproof 
from  the  devastating  fire  of  a  fool.  Some  natures — 
morbid,  sensitive,  haunted  of  ghosts — may  shrink 
from  a  ruthless  going  among  men.  There  are  such 
shaken  folk.  Coleridge  was  one  of  these.  He  couldn't 
bring  himself  to  open  a  letter,  and  would  let  one  lie 
for  untouched  weeks  as  if  it  caged  a  cobra.  Collins 
fled  from  London,  raved  if  he  but  heard  men's  voices 
in  an  anthem,  and  went  mad  among  rural  graves. 
These  children  of  the  morbid  and  De  Quincey  strain 
are  the  ones  of  all  who  should  mingle  broadly  with 
men.  There  is  a  sanity  in  much  meeting  of  men. 
Only  meet  men  enough,  and  one  will  gather  to  himself 
a  happiness,  a  soul-health,  and  a  good  fortune  allowed 
to  dwell  with  none  save  the  Hyperborean. 

Bryan  misunderstood  the  issue.  Bryan  fought  for 
Silver,  and  finance  in  1900  was  not  the  question.  The 
appeals  of  predatory  wealth — the  Black  Sanctus  of 
Money  praying  to  the  devil — had  been  rewarded  with 


360  RICHARD   CROKER. 

the  Trust.  And  the  question  of  the  Trust  was  in  the 
hearts  and  on  the  beating  lips  of  common  men;  it  was 
Trusts  they  would  have  answered;  Trusts  were  the 
issue.  And  Trusts  are  like  to  be  the  issue  these  rolling 
many  care-trodden  years  to  come. 

Clisthenes  invented  ostracism  for  the  Athenians. 
He,  of  Athens,  who  by  money  or  intrigue  made  him- 
self a  common  menace  could  be  exiled  by  popular  vote. 
There  should  be  a  next  amendment  to  the  Constitu- 
tion arranging  for  an  American  ostracism.  There  are 
one  hundred  folk  of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  were 
they  thrust  forth  from  a  residence,  debarred  our  courts, 
and  stripped  of  right  to  property,  the  future  of  liberty 
among  this  people  would  brighten  by  one-third. 

If  one  were  to  bend  one's  self  to  Trusts,  one  might 
better  begin  with  that  inquiry  of  Trust  parentage  sug- 
gested of  Havemeyer,  and  study  Protection.  Protec- 
tion, as  a  shout  of  politics,  was  first  loudly  heard  far 
back  in  the  twenties,  when  Jackson  and  Adams  and 
Clay  and  Crawford  met  in  four-sided  White  House 
contention.  The  tariff  imposed  to  pay  the  expense  of 
the  War  of  1812  was  found  grateful  by  the  manu- 
facturers of  that  day;  gluttons  then  as  gluttons  now. 
But  in  the  twenties  the  debt  was  well  towards  being 
met;  the  tariff  reason  was  departing.  So  the  manu- 
facturers, inventing  the  pretext  of  Protection, 
clamored,  squealing — as  ever  swine  for  swill — for  tariff 
continuation. 

It  was  Calhoun  who  first  said:  "Free  raw  ma- 
terials." This  phrase  he  made  while  contending  Dem- 
ocratically for  a  "  tariff  for  revenue  only,"  and  the  Pro- 
tection incident  thereunto.  "  Free  raw  materials  " 
was  a  concession  to  manufacturers — a  sort  of  sop  to 


THE  PROTECTIVE  TARIFF.  361 

Cerberus — and  meant  for  their  mollification.  Since 
then,  party  readers,  rather  than  party  reasoners,  have 
repeated  it  as  a  tenet  of  Democracy,  and  withal  holy. 
Within  our  own  time,  Morrison — the  first  Democrat 
to  head  the  Ways  and  Means  following  Civil  War — ac- 
cepted it.  With  Morrison,  as  with  Calhoun,  however, 
"  Free  raw  materials  "  was  a  concession,  not  a  principle. 

As  an  after  contingency  of  Civil  War,  as  in  the  days 
to  follow  the  last  war  with  England,  the  American 
manufacturer  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  a  tariff  that 
bred  riches  in  his  favor  like  a  growth  of  grass.  And 
he  couldn't  get  it  high  enough,  such  was  his  money- 
gluttony  to  gorge  his  pockets.  Thus,  in  our  own  eaten 
hour,  Protection  again  became  a  war-shout  of  party. 
And  as  the  Whigs  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  century 
had  it  for  their  slogan,  so  also  their  Republican  lega- 
tees, of  the  latter  quarter,  used  it  for  theirs. 

Protection  is  the  name  for  that  excess  of  tariff  which 
the  country  does  not  need  to  pay  its  bills.  And  the 
Supreme  Court  long  ago  declared  it  illegal.  The 
Supreme  Court  asserted  that  the  nation's  taxing  or 
tariff  power  could  not  legally  be  pushed  beyond  the 
limit  of  public  need.  This  did  not  deter  the  Protec- 
tionists, who  never  yet  balked  of  a  desire  because  of 
its  illicit  sort.  They  waved  the  bloody  shirt,  aroused 
Northern  terrors  with  the  picture  of  a  malcontent  and 
scowling  South,  elected  their  Congresses,  and  did  the 
hungry  will  of  the  manufacturers. 

Our  Eepublicans  gave  the  manufacturers  Protec- 
tion. Also,  for  their  own  defense,  they  did  another 
thing.  They  piled,  and  piled,  and  piled  up  public 
expense.  This  was  to  do  away  with  the  use  of  Pro- 
tection as  a  phrase.  It  was,  as  a  commandment  of 


362  RICHARD  CRORER. 

Republicanism,  alarming  to  the  public,  and,  therefore, 
perilous  to  party.  But  the  fact  of  Protection  could 
not  be  surrendered,  for  the  swinish  voracity  of  manu- 
facturers— who  furnished  the  campaign  funds  of  Re- 
publicanism— demanded  it.  The  easy  settlement  was 
to  increase  public  expense.  Even  a  Democrat  could 
not  object  to  "  a  tariff  for  revenue  only."  Therefore, 
pile  up  expense;  and  thereby  pile  up  the  want  of  reve- 
nue to  a  figure  where  the  tariff  built  to  meet  it  would 
cover  the  last  call  of  the  manufacturers,  and  still 
avoid  the  distinctive  and  dangerous  title  of  Pro- 
tection. 

Within  the  decade  Republican  Congresses  have  done 
their  most  to  inflate  appropriations  and  waste  the  peo- 
ple's money.  And  all  for  no  reason,  beyond  the  bare 
first  fact  of  direct  loot,  ever  agreeable  to  your  true 
Protectionist  in  place,  than  to  base  thereon  a  tariff, 
which  should  add  to  the  fortunes — blood-garnered  and 
criminal  in  many  instances — of  that  whole  long  muster 
of  wolves  who,  for  the  past  quarter  of  a  century,  have 
worn  sheep's  clothing  and  marauded  the  fair  flocks  of 
common  weal.  A  glance — hit  or  miss — at  the  expense 
history  of  this  country  will  show  what  Protectionists 
have  done.  In  Monroe's  time,  the  over-all  expense  of 
government  was  eight  and  one-half  millions;  in  Jack- 
son's bold  hour,  thirteen  millions;  as  late  as  Buchanan's 
regime,  the  year  before  Lincoln  came  to  the  White 
House,  it  was  under  fifty-six  millions.  To-day,  the  an- 
nual expense  of  government  is  over  nine  hundred  mil- 
lions. "  Tariff  for  revenue  only!  "  is  good  enough.  No 
one  shall  run  the  chance  of  shouting  "  Protection! " 
Meanwhile,  the  favored  manufacturers  fill  their  pockets 
with  both  hands.  How  have  the  Protectionists  swelled 


THE  TAMMANY  MONUMENT  AT  GETTYSBURG. 


f 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  PLUNDER.  363 

the  expense  of  government?  In  a  thousand  somber 
fashions.  Direct  fraud,  pensions,  contracts,  place- 
making — the  larcenous  story  would  hardly  have  an 
end.  Be  assured  of  this:  The  nation,  now  costing 
more  than  nine  hundred  yearly  millions,  can  run  for 
one  hundred  millions;  and  be  at  that  as  much  a  world's 
force  as  in  that  thirteen-million-dollar  day  of  the 
grand  Jackson,  when  he  ordered  his  fleets  into  the 
Mediterranean — the  Constitution  at  the  head  of  the 
column — and  forced  France  to  give  up  seven  and  one- 
half  millions  at  the  mouth  of  the  gun. 

Your  sole  "reason"  of  Protection  is  private 
rapacity;  there  was  never  the  public  argument  for  its 
invention.  Protection  said  "infant  industries!" 
An  industry  so  unnatural  to  the  soil  that  it  requires  a 
subsidy — in  short,  Protection — should  be  allowed  to 
die.  Because  some  harebrain  would  raise  lemons  in 
Vermont,  must  some  highboard  fence  of  tariff  against 
the  coming  of  lemons  to  these  lands  be  built  for  his 
protection?  And  yet  that  is  the  reductio  ad  absurdum 
of  the  argument  of  "  infant  industries."  The  Protec- 
tionists said  we  should  continue — by  Protection — to 
foster  "  home  industries,"  until  we  could  fulfill  our 
every  want.  There  are  one  thousand  necessities,  from 
sardines  to  cinnamon,  camel's  hair  to  quinine,  which 
we  will  never  supply  by  any  product  of  home,  however 
hotbedded  or  hothoused  of  Protection.  It  was  urged 
that  Protection  was  a  mantlet  wherewith  to  make  se- 
cure the  American  workman  from  arrowish  "  competi- 
tion with  pauper  labor  over-seas."  Its  effect,  direct, 
was  to  bring  him  into  that  penniless  competition.  Pro- 
tection drove  off  foreign  competition;  it  left  less  for 
the  foreigner  to  do.  The  "  foreign  pauper  workman  " 


364  RICHARD   CROKER. 

thereupon  took  steerage  passage  for  America.  In  two 
weeks  he  was  "  competing  "  with  the  American  work- 
man— this  "foreign  pauper  workman  "  whose  work  had 
been  lost,  because  his  foreign  employer  lost,  through 
Protection,  the  American  market.  They  said  Protec- 
tion would  promote  the  wage  of  the  American  work- 
man. There  are  guilds  which  Protection  can  never 
reach.  There  are  doctors,  and  blacksmiths,  and  law- 
yers, and  farmers,  and  teachers,  and  carpenters,  and 
preachers,  and  bricklayers,  and  a  brigade  of  trades  be- 
sides. No  Protection,  however  craftily  devised  or  hon- 
estly dealt  forth,  could  touch  pleasantly  one  of  these. 
And  yet  of  the  twenty-eight  millions  of  work-folk  in 
America  they  make  twenty-three  and  one-half  millions. 
Only  four  and  one-half  millions  toil  for  "protected 
industries."  And  by  the  same  tariff  thought  of  Pro- 
tection cheat  and  swindle!  the  wages  paid  folk  who 
work  for  "  protected  industries  "  are  lower  than  those 
of  unprotected  and  unprotectable  trades.  Witness  the 
five-dollar  a  week  wage  of  the  Fall  Eiver  mills;  the 
eight-dollars  a  week,  for  five  months  in  the  year,  at 
the  coal  holes;  the  fifty-five-dollar  a  month  which  the 
friendly  Congressional  Committee,  headed  by  Gates, 
reported  as  the  highest  average  wage  paid  by  Carnegie, 
when  the  cut  was  made  that  called  down  the  blood  and 
murder  of  the  Homestead  strike.  The  collection  of 
proofs  to  show  a  Protection  mendacity  might  be 
lengthened  indefinitely.  No;  Protection,  based  on 
lies,  to  enable  the  few  to  deplete  the  many,  has 
been  publicly  a  bloodsucker  and  privately  a  blight. 
It  has  made  a  huddle  of  millionaires  and  a  horde  of 
vagrants.  It  has  also  taught  this  civic  truth:  Never 
take  your  President  from  a  manufacturing  State. 


WHEREUPON  THE  TRUST.  365 

Take  him  from  the  regions  of  agriculture;  from  the 
kingdom  of  farms. 

And  because  sundry  millionaires  have  made  more 
millions,  they  call  the  country  prosperous.  Mere  wealth 
in  a  country  doesn't  mean  prosperity.  It  is  the  distri- 
bution of  wealth.  A  community  of  one  thousand  souls, 
and  each  with  fifty  thousand  dollars,  would  be  an 
aggregate  of  fifty  million  dollars;  and  it  would  be  a 
tale  to  tell  of  a  people  prosperous  and  well  content.  But 
a  community  of  one  thousand  souls,  where  one  had 
fifty  million  dollars,  and  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
not  one  dollar  among  them,  would  be  a  den  where  all 
the  serpents  of  slavery,  ignorance,  misery,  and  degrada- 
tion would  coil  and  hiss  and  strike. 

Protection  has  had  but  one  beneficiary:  the  pro- 
tected manufacturer.  It  took  from  others  and  it  gave 
to  him.  Protection  has  had  but  one  purpose:  to  beat 
down  foreign  competition  and  give  to  the  protected 
manufacturer  the  American  market,  uncontested,  as 
his  own.  Foreign  manufacturers  have  been  driven 
away.  That's  why  our  papers  are  each  year  able  to 
chronicle  an  excess  of  exports  over  imports;  and  so 
witlessly  gratulate  themselves  and  us  on  the  "pros- 
perity "  thus  expressed. 

It  is  at  this  mile-post  that  the  rede  of  Havemeyer 
is  overtaken.  "  Protection  is  the  mother  of  Trusts!  " 
The  latter  had  logical  suggestion  from  the  first.  Pro- 
tection struck  down  competition  from  abroad.  Trusts 
would  strike  down  competition  at  home.  Add  Trusts 
to  Protection — or,  with  expenses  fraud-bloated  and 
dropsied  of  much  crime,  a  "  tariff  for  revenue  only  " — 
and  competition  completely  disappears.  Also,  with 
Trusts,  much  of  the  cost  of  production  fades  away. 


366  RICHARD  CROKER. 

Salesmen  are  sent  adrift,  work-folk  laid  off,  mills  shut 
down,  production  pinched  to  the  market  minimum. 
Your  transcendent  Trust  works  both  ways.  It  hires 
fewer  men,  and  so  cuts  down  expense.  It  kills  off 
competition,  and  leaves  an  open  path  to  higher  price. 
Trusts  put  down  the  cost  price  and  put  up  the  sell- 
ing price;  swell  the  intake  while  restricting  the 
outgo. 

There  is  a  law  called  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust  Law. 
By  its  sure  terms  every  Trust  is  outlaw — a  wolf's-head; 
and  that,  despite  the  paid-for  word  of  a  Trustbred 
Attorney  General,  who,  with  a  Trust  conscience,  holds 
a  Trust  commission  as  a  Cabineteer.  The  Trusts  are 
felons  by  word  of  law.  Eepublicanism  insists  that  they 
are  the  people's  friends.  The  Trusts  condemn  working- 
folk  to  idleness  and  low  wage.  Republicanism  declares 
them  to  be  beneficent.  The  Trusts,  having  silenced 
competition  among  their  members,  and  protected  by  a 
breakwater  tariff  against  European  competition,  have, 
in  one  year,  while  cutting  down  expenses,  boosted 
prices  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  per  cent. 
And,  as  usual,  a  doltish  public  pays  the  penalty.  And, 
equally  as  usual — for  such  is  its  benign  notion  of  the 
beautiful — Republicanism  declares  that  Trusts  are 
heaven-sent  blessings  from  Above.  Such  is  the  Trust- 
owned  Republicanism  of  to-day.  It  isn't  the  Repub- 
licanism of  Lincoln's  honored  time.  Lincoln's  Re- 
publicanism made  for  the  slave  freedom.  Present  Re- 
publicanism pays  twenty  millions  of  dollars  for  a  realm 
where  slavery  flourishes,  and  approves  that  bondage 
by  direct  and  patronizing  recognition.  Lincoln's  Re- 
publicanism spoke  from  his  seat  in  the  House  against 
an  American  throne.  Present  Republicanism  has  its 


OPHIDIAN  COMMERCE.  367 

satrap  in  the  Orient  and  keeps  a  Sultan  on  its  salary 
list. 

There  one  has  a  weak  and  half-told  story  of  the 
Trusts.  They  are  veriest  vines  of  rapacity  clambering 
on  the  people's  needs.  This  is  the  age  of  a  saurian 
business — the  age  of  the  mammoth  frog  and  giant 
lizard  of  commerce — the  age  of  an  ophidian  trade. 
But  the  flood  comes!  The  glaciers  make  themselves 
prepared!  In  the  raving  madness  of  this  money-rush, 
honor,  conscience,  justice,  wisdom,  all  are  trodden  un- 
derfoot. Men  go  on  and  on:  they  gather  one  million! 
five  millions!  ten  millions!  fifty  millions!  one  hundred 
millions!  two  hundred  millions!  aye!  three  hundred 
millions!  and  still  they  press  crazily  forward!  There  is 
no  frontier  to  their  voracity,  no  limit  to  their  senseless 
heat  for  gold.  They  have  gone  beyond  lines  of 
necessity,  of  comfort,  of  luxury,  and  pushed  into 
regions  where  dwell  only  Anxiety  and  Danger,  and 
where  no  good  thing  ever  walks.  Verily!  there  is  an 
insanity  of  avarice  that  takes  without  want  and  seizes 
beyond  power  to  enjoy!  It  is  insanity — as  much  as 
that  which  yells  in  any  padded  cell  to-night.  And  the 
public  question  becomes:  Are  we  to  let  these  maniacs 
of  millions  desolate  a  nation  and  lay  waste  the  last 
prospect  of  popular  right? 

Look  where  one  will,  one's  eyes  rest  on  a  Trust. 
Flour,  coal,  beef,  leather,  oil,  milk,  iron,  steel,  sugar — 
there  isn't  an  item,  except  a  stunted  few  directly  farm- 
born,  that  isn't  dominated  of  a  Trust.  Competition 
is  dead — Trust-slain.  The  buyer  is  thrall  to  the  seller. 
The  consumer's  last  shilling  is  subject  to  Trust  whistle 
and  must  come  at  Trust  call.  Nor  has  the  end  been 
reached.  There  is  yet  to  be  a  little  and  still  a  little 


368  RICHARD  CROKER. 

more  of  Trust  preparation.  Then  will  these  corps  of  a 
lupine  Money  move  upon  the  people.  There  will  be 
three  of  these  armies  of  darkness:  There  will  be  the 
Money  Trust  direct;  a  combination  of  the  Banks.  This 
is  to  be  the  guardian  of  the  country,  and  rule  at 
once  its  currency  and  credit.  There  will  be  the  Manu- 
facturing Trust,  including  the  coal  holes.  Last,  and 
yet  not  vilely  least,  there  will  be  the  Transportation 
Trust;  and  the  railroads  will  act  as  one.  These  legions 
of  greed  have  but  one  purpose — to  devour  the  people. 
They  will  agree  among  themselves;  certainly  they 
connive  such  ignoble  harmony.  The  public  is  to  be 
stripped  of  every  groat — of  its  last  robe.  Then  the 
spoilers — the  Bank  Trust,  the  Eailroad  Trust,  and  the 
Manufacturing  Trust — will  cast  lots  among  themselves 
in  division  of  the  garments. 

One  is  fain  to  yawn  disgustedly  as  one  gazes  down 
the  coming  public  years.  And,  betimes,  one  longs  for 
that  simple  hour  of  the  fathers,  when  every  man  could 
say  a  prayer  and  shoot  a  gun — and  did.  Does  it  come 
to  you  who  read,  that,  save  in  Civil  War,  never 
until  1877  at  Pittsburg,  was  the  soldier  brought  to 
fix  bayonet  against  the  citizen?  For  one  hundred 
years,  except  in  the  Whisky  Insurrection  of  a  day  of 
Washington,  when  no  blood  flowed  and  the  question  of 
labor  had  no  part,  nothing  of  that  deadly  sort  was 
called  for  to  maintain  American  folk  in  civic  order. 
Those  hundred  years  were  free  of  any  foulness  of  a 
Republican  Protection.  Is  it  coincidence?  or  is  it 
cause  and  effect?  For  a  century  no  Federal  bayonet 
nor  bullet  was  demanded  in  the  fortunes  of  manufac- 
turing. For  the  last  quarter  of  a  century — an  age  of 
Protection  to  find  its  criminal  climax  in  the  Trust — 


THE  FUTILE  BAYONET.  369 

the  Federal  soldiery  have  had  constant  calling  out  to 
police  strikes  and  put  down  riots.  And,  by  the  casual 
way,  does  it  occur  to  you  that  folk  don't  strike  for  fun? 
and  that  a  riot  has  a  reason?  Bad,  truly!  but  still  a 
reason;  and  one  not  possible  of  bayonet  removal.  A 
score  of  times  since  1877  the  Federal  troops  have  been 
summoned  to  a  campaign  against  labor.  And  whatever 
timidity,  or  vacuity,  or  servility  may  say  or  think, 
those  bayonets  were  each  time  prying  and  digging  at 
the  corner  stone  of  freedom. 

What  is  to  happen?  During  two  years,  Trusts 
formed  and — stock  and  bonds — created  six  billion  dol- 
lars of  new  credit.  Over  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  amount 
was  water — a  falsity!  a  hope!  a  hunger!  a  trap!  In  the 
same  two  years  only  one  hundred  and  thirty  million 
dollars,  new  money,  were  added  to  the  circulation.  And 
these  proportions  of  Trust  and  currency  construction 
are  still  observed.  What  should  be  the  story?  What  is 
credit?  It's  a  wolf — a  mouth  that  howls  for  money.  The 
banks  are  gorged  with  Trust  securities.  They  wait  for 
money — for  lenders  and  buyers.  For  every  dollar  that 
exists  there  are  twenty  demands.  The  Trust-mongers 
want  to  sell,  at  least,  the  water  in  those  six  billions. 
Then  let  the  storm  break  how  and  when  it  will. 
And  so  they  crowd  and  jostle  and  struggle  for  customers 
for  those  Trust  "  securities  "!  It  is  all  the  banks  may 
do  to  preserve  order  in  this  hungry  herd  and  stave  off 
slaughter. 

Folk  talk  of  Prosperity.  Man!  it's  the  Prosperity 
of  drunkenness!  the  Prosperity  that  speculates  but 
doesn't  earn — that  forays  but  doesn't  work!  Trust 
"  securities  "  to  the  siren  song  of  billions  have  been 
new-hatched.  They  are  hunting  money.  And  of  those 


370  RICHARD  CROKER. 

billions  of  "  securities,"  more  than  one-half  reposes  on 
nothing  but  appetite  and  fraud.  To  lure  customers 
for  these  "  securities  "  the  Trusts  put  up  prices  of  com- 
modities. They  must  show  a  dividend  on  those  billions' 
worth  of  "  securities."  Then  they  may  find  buyers — 
hoodwink  fools  into  parting  with  their  money  for  those 
false  "securities."  Your  Trusts  are  rigged  to  rob  in 
all  directions.  They  pillage  the  consumer  with  higher 
prices,  and  delude  investors  with  unbased,  watered 
"  securities."  It  is  a  brave  game,  this  Trust  game!  It 
is  the  swindling  offspring  of  the  swindle,  Protection. 
Both  do  credit  to  the  party  which  created  them — a 
party  which  has  not  drawn  one  breath  of  patriotism 
since  the  days  of  Grant. 

Boldly,  your  lesson  of  the  Trust  is  the  thought  com- 
mercial. And  as  apparent  as  a  lemon-squeezer!  And 
as  crushingly  effectual!  Wages  are  cut,  employment  is 
cut,  and  men  are  made  idle.  The  idle  men  compete 
with  those  at  work,  and  wages  are  thereby  pared  still 
more.  Competition  being  dead;  the  consumer  is 
searched  and  re-searched  for  his  final  dime.  It's  a 
flourishing  system;  albeit,  pushed  to  its  last  expression, 
the  system  that  kills  the  goose  that  lays  the  golden 
egg!  But  the  Banks  may  be  expected  to  attend  to 
that.  They  will  supervise  the  intemperance  of  the 
other  Trusts,  and  interpose  to  sustain  the  goose  with 
just  enough  of  life  to  "  lay." 

Since  Chaos  wedded  Nyx,  and  the  hideous  slumbers 
of  Disorder  and  Darkness  dwelt  together  in  their  ebon 
bed,  posterity  has  lain  under  no  such  danger  as  to-day's. 
Money — the  Trust — drags  down  the  hours  as  wolves 
drag  down  the  deer.  Money  should  beware.  Money 
should  take  exceeding  heed  lest  it  dig  a  pit  for  its 


BEWARE  THE  ANGLO-DANE!  371 

own  feet.  It  deals  with  the  Anglo-Dane.  No  feeble 
race  is  this;  though  of  that  hard  and  sullen  patience 
slow  to  be  commoved.  Eevolution  is  the  lesson  of  this 
race.  It  has  crushed  thrones  beneath  the  heel  of  its 
hates;  kings  have  not  waited  to  look  it  between  the 
eyes  in  the  hour  of  its  anger.  I  write  as  one  of  most 
indifference.  The  world  is  my  tent,  and  where  ink 
and  paper  find  each  other  there  shall  I  live. 

There  will  be  those  to  cavil  for  that  I  print  of 
Richard  Croker  while  he  lives.  Of  such  I  ask,  is  a  man 
the  better  subject  for  being  dead?  Or  rather,  is  he  no 
subject  until  the  clods  have  covered  him?  We  should 
all  be  sextons  on  such  terms.  I  write  of  Richard 
Croker  as  he  was  and  is;  his  epicedium  is  yet  to  be 
chaunted.  As  I  look  backward  on  what  I  have  told  in 
this  book,  I  am  content.  I  have  spoken  some  decent 
truths  of  him  most  lied  upon  of  his  place  and  day. 
And  I  have  admitted  well  of  the  "  machine  "  for  reason 
readily  declared.  Were  a  theory  of  politics,  to  include 
the  "  machine,"  presented  for  my  sanction,  I  would 
say  "  no  "  ;  just  as  I  would  turn  a  negative  on  a  theory 
of  social  existence  which  included  the  rum  shop  and 
the  brothel.  But  the  trail  of  my  experience  has  not 
been  traveled  in  vain;  I  have  not  now  to  learn  that 
difference  between  the  theoretical  and  the  practical 
which  all  who  live  this  life  of  ours  must  account  for 
and  accommodate.  In  theory  I  might  not  applaud 
the  "  machine."  For  a  precise  and  kindred  reason  of 
theory  I  would  not  indorse  an  army.  In  the  abstract 
I  might  see  faults  in  what,  by  Richard  Croker,  is  done 
and  left  undone.  But  theories  and  abstractions  fall 
before  the  practical.  Richard  Croker  deals  with  con- 
ditions and  with  men  as  they  are.  The  town  is  not 


372  RICHARD   CROKER. 

his  handiwork;  the  "  machine  "  is  not  his  child.  The 
error  of  all  errors  is  the  dark  error  of  defeat.  Richard 
Croker  will  not  disavow  the  practical  to  follow  a  theory 
to  destruction.  He  receives,  of  necessity,  a  situation 
of  politics  ready-made;  and  he  does  his  best  with  it. 
And  I  say  again  he  is  a  worthiest  influence  of  his  town 
and  time.  I  have  put  down  the  truth  of  him.  Also, 
I  have  had,  on  subjects,  various  and  several,  the  unpent 
pleasure  of  saying  what  I  thought  and  why  I  thought  it. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


• 


